UNIVERSITY  OP 

CAL^ORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 

Miss  Nancy  Davidson 


IN    PRAISE   OF   GARDENS 


In  Praise  of 
Gardens 

Compiled  by 

Temple  Scott 


New  York 

The  Baker  &  Taylor  Co. 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 


Published,  March,  19x0 


THE  TROW    PRESS.    NEW   YORK 


TO 

JOYCE 

FROM    HER    ADMIRING 
FATHER 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  editor  takes  pleasure  in  expressing  his 
grateful  thanks  to  the  publishers  of  Collier's 
Weekly  for  courteous  permission  to  include 
the  poem  by  Mr.  Bliss  Carman ;  to  Mr. 
Bliss  Carman  for  his  courtesy  ;  to  The  John 
Lane  Co.  for  permission  to  reprint  the  poem 
by  Laurence  Hope ;  to  Mr.  Mitchell  Ken- 
nedy for  permission  to  include  the  poem  by 
Mr.  J.  G.  Neihardt,  and  to  The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.  for  permission  to  reprint  the  poem 
by  Mr.  Robert  Bridges. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 13 

The  Garden  of  Joy  and  Delight 21 

The  Garden  of  Love 63 

The  Garden  of  Home 105 

Gardens  Lost  and  Found    . 151 

The  Garden  of  Peace 165 

The  Garden  of  God  and  the  Soul    .  .181 


INTRODUCTION 

"  WITHOUT  Sun  I  keep  silence,"  says  an  old 
sun-dial.  "Though  silent  I  speak,"  says  another. 
In  these  two  mottoes  lies  the  secret  of  the  power 
and  the  living  charm  of  all  gardens ;  a  secret,  the 
meaning  of  which  is  precipitated  by  the  alchemy 
of  silence.  For  a  garden  is  silent  to  the  ear 
only;  to  every  other  sense  it  is  eloquent  and  ex- 
quisitely musical.  "  Silence,"  says  Carlyle,  "  is 
the  element  in  which  all  great  things  fashion 
themselves  together;  that  at  length  they  may 
emerge,  full-formed  and  majestic,  into  the  day- 
light of  life."  It  is  in  silence  that  a  Garden 
blossoms,  without  boasting  of  what  it  is  going  to 
do.  Once  it  has  blossomed  it  speaks  the  univer- 
sal language  that  all  can  understand. 

A  Garden  is  our  happiest  means  for  evoking 
Nature's  mystic  as  well  as  Nature's  sensible 
music.  It  is  in  itself  the  consummate  eloquence 
of  the  living  silence  of  sunlight  a  silence  in 
which  sunlight,  with  the  aid  of  earth's  elements, 
expresses  itself  in  the  lovely  colors  of  flowers. 
What  sound  is  to  the  ear  that  color  may  be  said 

[13] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


to  be  to  the  eye;  and  a  garden,  lovingly  tended, 
may  become  a  very  orchestra  of  colors  which 
varies  its  symphonic  movements  with  the  varying 
seasons  of  the  year.  Flowers  may  be  said  to  be 
the  words  of  the  poetry  of  sunlight,  and  their 
colors  its  music.  They  come  and  they  go;  but 
in  the  interval  a  perfect  expression  has  found 
utterance,  and  the  vision  or  song,  call  it  what 
you  will,  has  spoken  its  appeal,  has  revealed  its 
message. 

A  garden  is  also  eloquent  to  the  ear,  for  it  is 
the  home  of  song-birds.  Here  come  and  nest  the 
happy  people  of  the  sky,  accompanying,  with 
their  vocal  music,  the  thoughts  and  emotions 
which  the  garden,  by  its  silence,  breathes  into  us. 
They  pipe  their  lays  to  our  mood  either  of  morn- 
ing exultation  or  of  evening's  meditation.  The 
mystery  is  that  they  come  upon  us  not  as  in- 
truders or  disturbers  in  this  retreat  of  quietude, 
but  rather  as  companions  in  labor  or  as  friends 
in  sympathy.  I  know  no  more  joyous  encourager 
to  effort  than  the  lark's  song  falling  down  from 
a  brilliant  summer  evening's  sky;  and  I  know  of 
no  more  deeply  touching  sense  of  kinship  with 
nature  than  that  which  comes  over  us  with  the 
parting  trills  of  the  thrush  on  some  golden, 

[14] 


INTRODUCTION 


tremblingly,  peaceful  autumnal  evening,  when  his 
notes  strike  the  stilled  air  at  intervals  as  if  they 
were  the  call  of  some  far-distant  Angelus. 

"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy-laden,"  says  the  Garden,  "  and  I  will  give 
you  rest."  Not  the  rest  of  apathy,  nor  yet  the 
listlessness  of  ennui,  but  the  recuperative  rest, 
the  rest  that  we  so  need  after  the  tiring  turmoil 
of  the  day's  labor  in  the  city's  forges.  And  the 
Garden  will  keep  its  word.  Its  silence  and  its 
perfumes  are  as  a  healing  balm.  And  yet  it  is 
a  busy  silence,  for  it  is  the  silence  of  creation,  in 
which  life  is  growing  into  blossoming,  and  in 
which  spirit  is  transforming  itself  into  splendid 
matter.  This  wonderful  operation,  as  it  im- 
presses itself  on  you,  will  touch  you  to  responsive 
impulses,  and  your  rest  will  be  energizing.  This 
is  the  true  delight  we  experience  from  gardens, 
that  it  makes  us  aware  of  our  own  creative  pow- 
ers and  through  this  of  our  kinship  with  God. 

We  say  that  a  garden  is  delightful,  but  are 
rarely  conscious  of  what  we  mean  by  the  word. 
If  we  analyze  the  sensation  we  shall  find  that 
it  is  born  of  seeing  the  sheer  beauty  of  life  which 
a  garden  is  forever  revealing.  For  here  we  be- 
come somehow  aware  of  the  joy  of  mere  living. 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


In  the  splendid  modesty  of  the  rose  we  are 
touched  with  the  sense  of  its  utter  contentment 
to  live  and  to  die,  if  but  it  has  fulfilled  itself  of 
its  color  and  perfume.  In  its  fulfillment  we  see 
its  glory.  We  sense  this  dimly  at  first,  but  later, 
when  we  have  dwelt  in  gardens  more  frequently, 
we  are  able  to  spell  out  the  mystical  language 
the  garden  is  speaking  through  its  flowers  and 
trees  and  bushes  and  shrubs.  "  Would  you  know 
what  I  am  ?  "  asks  the  rose,  in  effect,  and  its  life 
of  a  day  is  the  answer,  and  the  only  answer.  It 
has  given  itself  in  explaining  itself.  Is  there  any 
other  explanation  possible?  Not  in  the  labora- 
tories of  men  of  science,  nor  yet  in  learned  trea- 
tises will  you  find  the  secret  of  the  rose  ;  but  you 
will  find  it  in  a  garden  if  you  look  for  it  with 
the  eyes  of  your  soul.  And  in  finding  its  secret, 
you  will  have  found  your  own  secret  also.  That 
is  why  a  garden  impresses  us  with  a  feeling  of 
sanctity;  and  that  also  is  why  a  garden  is  delight- 
ful. It  helps  you  to  find  yourself.  The  mystery 
of  all  things  is  the  mystery  of  your  self;  and 
through  self-realization  you  come  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  beauty  in  all  life,  which  is  to  blossom 
with  fragrance  "  in  purple  and  red."  For  the 
secret  of  life  lies  not  so  much  in  being  as  it  does 

[16.] 


INTRODUCTION 


in  becoming;  in  growing  by  ever  new  expressions 
of  the  many-sided  meaning  of  being.  And  out 
of  the  consciousness  of  growth  is  born  your  joy. 

"  In  green  old  gardens,  hidden  away 

From  sight  of  revel,  and  sound  of  strife  — 
Here  have  I  leisure  to  breathe  and  move, 

And  to  do  my  work  in  a  nobler  way; 

To  sing  my  songs,  and  to  say  my  say; 

To  dream  my  dreams,  and  to  love  my  love  ; 

To  hold  my  faith  and  to  live  my  life, 

Making  the  most  of  its  shadowy  day." 

This  confession  of  the  poet  to  the  many  appeals 
to  which  a  garden  responds,  to  the  many  aspects 
of  our  nature  which  it  satisfies,  explains  what  I 
have  tried  to  hint  of  its  fulfilling  influences.  In 
a  garden  we  are  free  of  the  stress  and  sight  of 
men's  sordid  bickerings;  we  are  released  from 
the  prison  of  depressing  and  debilitating  conven- 
tions. In  a  Garden  we  are  brought  into  primal 
relations  with  primal  things;  we  understand  the 
joy  of  simply  living,  like  children  do,  and  the 
one  response  to  that  is  song.  The  blitheness  of 
being  is  in  our  blood.  Here  we  may  dream  our 
dreams  forgetful  of  our  past  failures,  heartened 
by  the  encouraging  hope  here  given  us  of  what  we 


INTRODUCTION 


may  do.  Responsive  to  the  revealing  mystery  of 
the  place  our  hearts  open  to  love,  and  we  find 
peace  in  an  abiding  faith.  For  we  also  are  of 
the  company  of  life  ;  what  the  rose  can  do,  surely 
we  may  succeed  in  doing.  Because  of  these 
influences  a  garden  is  strength-giving,  strength- 
renewing.  Life  is,  as  it  were,  at  its  fountain- 
head  here.  Nature  and  Nature's  God  are  en- 
gaged in  the  mystery  of  creation  —  the  ground  is 
holy  ground  —  the  growing  bush  is  the  burning 
bush  out  of  which  God's  voice  comes  to  bid  us 
take  heart  and  be  of  good  courage.  And  with 
it  all  is  here  also  ineffable  peace;  the  peace  of 
gladness  and  the  peace  of  rest. 

"  Here  I  untrammel, 

Here  I  pluck  loose  the  body's  cerementing, 
And  break  the  tomb  of  life;  here  I  shake  off 
The  bur  o'  the  world,  man's  congregation  shun, 
And  to  the  antique  order  of  the  dead 
I  take  tongueless  vows  ;  my  cell  is  set 
Here  in  thy  bosom;  my  little  trouble  is  ended 
In  a  little  peace." 

Here  also,  however,  we  may  take  the  speech- 
ful  vows,  not  to  the  antique  order  of  the  dead, 
but  to  the  antique  order  of  the  living.  To  gar- 

[18] 


INTRODUCTION 


dens  gravitate  as  by  a  natural  impulse  all  true 
lovers.  Beneath  the  canopy  of  their  leafy  bow- 
ers vows  have  been  exchanged  and  troths  plighted 
which  have  meant  all  that  life  holds  for  mortals. 
The  Garden  of  Peace  of  the  present  is  the  Gar- 
den of  Love  of  the  Past.  Memory  pauses  to  live 
again  its  youth's  happiness  and  its  youth's  pas- 
sion ;  and  the  landscape  takes  on  anew  the  radi- 
ance of  the  glory  of  bygone  days. 

And  what  more  fitting  place  for  children  than 
a  garden  ?  The  mere  apposition  of  the  words 
"  children  "  and  "  garden  "  satisfies  our  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things.  Surely  a  garden  was  first 
made  for  children  —  for  those  pure  in  heart  who 
live  in  innocence,  and  for  those  chastened  in 
spirit  whom  experience  has  taught  that  the  child- 
like life  is  nearest  to  the  true  life.  Thus  from 
the  Garden  of  Peace  through  the  Garden  of 
Love  we  plant  our  Garden  of  Joy.  And  in  the 
Garden  of  Joy  men  and  women,  like  Enoch  of 
old,  walk  with  God. 

"  A  Garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot  ! 
Rose  plot, 
Fringed  pool, 
Ferned  grot  — 

[19] 


INTRODUCTION 


The  veriest  school 

Of  peace;  and  yet  the  fool 

Contends  that  God  is  not  — 

Not  God  !  in  gardens  !  when  the  eve  is  cool  ? 

Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign; 

'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine." 

TEMPLE  SCOTT. 


[20] 


The  Garden  of  Joy  and  Delight 

OF  •  SHADE  •  AND  •  SUNSHINE  •  FOR  •  EACH  •  HOUR 

SEE  •  HERE  •  A  •  MEASURE  •  MADE  : 
THEN  •  WONDER  •  NOT  •  IF  •  LIFE  •  CONSIST 

OF  •  SUNSHINE  •  AND  •  OF  •  SHADE. 


EST  •  HORA 


The  Garden  of  Alcinoiis 

(Translation  from  the  Moorish  by  Walter  Harris  of  Tangier) 

Close  to  the  gates  a  spacious  garden  lies, 
From  storms  defended  and  inclement  skies. 
Four  acres  was  the  allotted  space  of  ground, 
Fenced  with  a  green  enclosure  all  around. 
Tall  thriving  trees  confessed  the  fruitful  mould; 
The  reddening  apple  ripens  here  to  gold. 
Here  the  blue  fig  with  luscious  juice  o'erflows, 
With  deeper  red  the  full  pomegranate  glows; 
The  branch  here  bends  beneath  the  mighty  pear, 
And  verdant  olives  flourish  round  the  year. 
The  balmy  spirit  of  the  western  gale 
Eternal  breathes  on  fruits,  untaught  to  fail; 
Each  dropping  pear  a  following  pear  supplies, 
On  apples  apples,  figs  on  figs  arise: 
The  same  mild  season  gives  the  blooms  to  blow, 
The  buds  to  harden,  and  the  fruits  to  grow. 

Ordered  vines  in  equal  ranks  appear, 
With  all  the  united  labours  of  the  year; 
Some  to  unload  the  fertile  branches  run, 
Some  dry  the  blackening  clusters  in  the  sun; 

[23] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Others  to  tread  the  liquid  harvest  join; 
The  groaning  presses  foam  with  floods  of  wine  ; 
Here  are  the  vines  in  early  flower  descried, 
Here  grapes  discoloured  on  the  sunny  side, 
And  there  in  autumn's  richest  purple  dyed; 

Beds  of  all  various  herbs,  for  ever  green, 
In  beauteous  order  terminate  the  scene. 

Two  plenteous  fountains  the  whole  prospect 

crowned  : 

This  through  the  garden  leads  its  stream  around, 
Visits  each  plant,  and  waters  all  the  ground. 
HOMER'S  The  Odyssy,  Bk.  VII. 


So  on  a  day,  right  in  the  morwe  tyde, 

Unto  a  gardyn  that  was  ther  bisyde, 

In  which  that  they  hadde  maid  hir  ordinaunce 

Of  vitaille,  and  of  other  purveiaunce, 

They  goon  and  playe  here  al  the  longe  day; 

And  this  was  on  the  sixte  morwe  of  May, 

Which  May  hadde  peynted  with  his  softe  shouers 

This  gardyn,  full  of  leves  and  of  floures, 

And  craft  of  mannes  hand  so  curiously 

Arrayed  hadde  this  gardyn,  trewely, 

That  never  was  ther  gardyn  of  swich  prys 

[24] 


OUR  •  TIMES  •  AT  •  HAND 


But  if  it  were  the  verray  Paradys. 
The  odour  of  floures  and  the  fresshe  sighte 
Wolde  hav  maked  any  herte  lighte 
That  ever  was  born,  but  if  to  greet  oiknesse, 
Or  to  greet  sorwe,  helde  it  in  distresse; 
So  full  it  was  with  beautee  with  pleasaunce. 
GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 

The    Canterbury    Tales. 

The  Franklin  s   Tale. 


The  garden  was  by  mesuryng 

Right  evene  and  square;  in  compassing 

It  was  as  long  as  it  was  large. 

Of  fruyt  hadde  every  tree  his  charge, 

But  it  were  any  hidous  tree, 

Of  which  ther  were  two  or  three. 

There  were,  and  that  wote  I  full  well, 

Of  pome  garnettys  a  full  gret  dell, 

That  is  a  fruyt  full  well  to  lyke, 

Namely  to  folk  whanne  they  ben  sike. 

And  trees  there  were  of  gret  foisoun 

That  baren  nottes  in  her  sesoun 

Such  as  men  note  mygges  call, 

That  swote  of  savour  ben  withhalle; 

[25] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


And  almanderes  gret  plnete, 

Fyges,  and  many  a  date  tree, 

These  waxen,  if  men  hadde  nede, 

Thorough  the  gardyn  in  length  and  brede, 

There  was  eke  waxyng  many  a  spice, 

As  clowe-gelofre,   and   lycorice, 

Gyngevre,  and  greyn  de  Paradys, 

Canell,  and  setewale  of  prys, 

And  many  a  spice  delitable, 

To  eten  whan  men  rise  fro  table. 

And  many  homly  trees  ther  were 

That  peches,  coynes,  and  apples  beere, 

Medlers,  plowmes,  perys  chesteynis, 

Chen's,  of  which  many  oon  fayne  is, 

Notes,  aleys,  and  bolas, 

That  for  to  seen  it  was  solas; 

With  many  high  lorer  and  pyn 

Was  renged  clene  all  that  gardyn, 

With  cipres  and  with  oliveris, 

Of  which  that  nygh  no  plente  heere  is. 

There  were  elmes  grete  and  stronge, 

Maples,  asshe,  oke,  aspe,  planes  longe, 

Pyne  ew,  popler,  and  lyndes  faire, 

And  othere  trees  full  many  a  payre  — 

What  shude  I  tel  you  more  of  it? 

There  were  so  many  trees  yit, 

[26], 


MEMOR  •  ESTO  •  BREVIS  •  JEVI 


That  I  shulde  al  encombred  be 
Or  I  had  rekened  every  tree. 

These  trees  were  sette,  that  I  devyse, 
One  from  another  in  assyse; 
Fyve  fadome  or  sixe,  I  trowe  so; 
But  they  were  hye  and  great  also, 
And  for  to  kepe  out  wel  the  sonne 
The  croppes  were  so  thicke  y-ronne, 
And  every  braunche  in  other  knette, 
And  ful  of  grene  leves  sette, 
That  sonne  myght  there  none  discende, 
Lest  it  the  tender  grasses  shende. 
There  myght  men  does  and  roes  y-se, 
And  of  squyrels  ful  grat  plente 
From  bowe  to  bowe  alwaye  lepynge; 
Connes  there  were  also  plaiynge, 
That  comyn  out  of  her  clapers 
Of  sondrie  colours  and  maners, 
And  maden  many  a  tourneiyng 
Upon  the  fresshe  grasse  spryngyng. 
In  places  sawe  I  welles  there 
In  whiche  there  no  frogges  were, 
And  fayre  in  shadowe  was  every  welle. 
But  I  ne  can  the  nombre  telle 
Of  stremys  smal,  that  by  devyse 

[27] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Myrthe  had  done  come  through  condyse; 
Of  vvhiche  the  water  in  rennyng 
Gan  make  a  noyse  ful  lykyng. 

About  the  brinkes  of  these  welles 
And  by  the  streme  over  al  elles 
Spronge  up  the  grasse,  as  thicke  y-set 
And  softe  as  any  veluet, 
On  whiche  men  myght  his  lemmon  lay 
As  on  a  fetherbed  to  pley, 
For  the  erthe  was  ful  softe  and  swete 
Through  moisture  of  the  welle  wete 
Spronge  up  the  sote  grene  gras 
As  fayre,  as  thicke,  as  myster  was. 
But  moche  amended  it  the  place 
That  therthe  was  of  suche  a  grace 
That  it  of  floures  hath  plente, 
That  bothe  in  somer  and  wynter  be. 
There  sprange  the  vyolet  al  newe, 
And  fresshe  pervynke  riche  of  hewe, 
And  floures  yelowe,  white  and  rede, 
Suche  plente  grewe  there  never  in  mede. 
Ful  gaye  was  al  the  grounde,  and  queynt 
And  poudred,  as  men  had  it  peynt 
With  many  a  fresshe  and  sondrie  floure, 
That  casten  up  ful  good  savour. 

[28] 


MANEO  •  NEMINI 


I  wol  nat  longe  holde  you  in  fable 
Of  al  this  garden  delectable, 
I  mote  my  tonge  stynted  nede; 
For  I  ne  maye  withouten  drede 
Naught  tellen  you  the  beaute  al, 
Ne  halfe  the  bounte  there  with  al. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 
"  The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose 


A  garden  saw  I  ful  of  blosmy  bowes 
Up— on  a  river  in  a  grene  mede, 
There  as  ther  swetnesse  evermore  y-now  is; 
With  floures  white,  blewe,  yelwe,  and  rede, 
And  colde  welle-stremes,  no-thyng  dede, 
That  swommen  ful  of  smale  fisches  lighte, 
With  fynnes  rede  and  scales  silver-brighte. 

On  every  bough  the  briddes  herde  I  synge, 

With  voys  of  aungel  in  her  armonye; 

Som  besyede  hem  hir  briddes  forth  to  brynge. 

The  litel  conyes  to  hir  play  gunne  hye; 

And  further  al  aboute  I  gan  aspye 

The  dredful  roo,  the  buk,  the  hert  and  hynde, 

Squerels  and  bestes  smale  of  gentil  kynde. 

[29] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Of  instruments  of  strenges  in  acord 
Herde  I  so  playe  a  ravisshyng  swetnesse, 
That  God,  that  maker  is  of  al  and  Lord, 
Ne  herde  never  beter,  as  I  gesse; 
Therewith  a  wynd,  unnethe  it  myghte  be  lesse, 
Made  in  the  leves  grene  a  noyse  softe, 
Acordant  to  the  foules  songe  on-lofte. 

The  air  of  that  place  so  attempre  was 
That  never  was  grevaunce  of  heat  ne  cold; 
There  wex  eek  every  holsom  spice  and  gras; 
Ne  no  man  may  ther  wexe  seek  ne  old, 
Yit  was  ther  joye  more  a  thousand  fold 
Than  man  can  telle  ;  ne  never  wolde  it  myghte, 
But  ay  cleer  day  to  any  mannes  sighte. 
GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 
The  Parlement  of  Foules. 

Then  did  I  see  a  pleasant  Paradize, 
Full  of  sweete  floures  and  daintiest  delights, 
Such  as  on  earth  man  could  no  more  devize, 
With    pleasures    choyce    to    feed    his    cheerefull 

sp  rights: 

Not  that,  which  Merlin  by  his  magicke  slights 
Made  for  the  gentle  Squire,  to  entertaine 
His  fayre  Belphoebe,  could  this  gardine  staine. 

[30] 


NON  •  TARDUM  •  OPPERIOR 


But  O  short  pleasure,  bought  with  lasting  paine  ! 
Why  will  hereafter  anie  flesh  delight 
In  earthlie  blis,  and  joy  in  pleasures  vaine, 
Since  that  I  saw  this  gardine  wasted  quite, 
That  where  it  was  scarce  seemed  anie  sight? 
That  I,  which  once  that  beautie  did  beholde, 
Could   not  from  teares  my  melting  eyes  with- 
holde. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 
The  Ruines  of  Time. 


There  the  most  daintie  Paradise  on  ground 

It  selfe  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye, 

In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  abound, 

And  none  does  others  happinesse  enoye; 

The  painted  flowres,  the  trees  upshooting  hye, 

The   dales   for  shade,   the   hilles   for  breathing 

space, 

The  trembling  groves,  the  christall  running  by, 
And,    that    which   all    faire   workes   doth    most 

aggrace, 
The  arb   which   all   that  wrought  appeared   in 

no  place. 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


One  would  have  thought  (so  cunningly  the  rude 
And    scorned    partes    were    mingled    with    the 

fine) 

That   nature  had   for  wantonesse   ensude 
Art,  and  that  Art  at  nature  did  repine; 
So  striving  each  th'  other  to  undermine, 
Each  did  the  others  worke  more  beautify; 
So  difFring  both  in  willes  agreed  in  fine: 
So  all  agreed,  through  sweete  diversity, 
This  Gardin  to  adorne  with  all  variety. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountaine  stood, 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  bee, 

So  pure  and  shiny  th^t  the  silver  flood 

Through  every  channel  running  one  might  see  ; 

Most  goodly  it  with  curious  ymageree 

Was  overwrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boyes, 

Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  jollitee 
To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toyes, 
Whyles  others  did  themselves  embay  in  liquid 
joyes. 

And  over  all  of  purest  gold  was  spread 
A  trayle  of  yvie  in  his  native  hew; 

For  the  rich  metall  was  so  coloured, 

That  wight  who  did  not  well  avis'd  it  vew 

[32] 


OLD  •  TIME  •  IS  •  STILL  •  A-FLYING 

Would  surely  deeme  it  to  bee  yvie  trew: 
Low  his  lascivious  arms  adown  did  creepe, 

That  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew, 
Their  fleecy  flowres  they  fearefully  did  steepe, 
Which   drops   of   Christall  seemed   for  wan- 
tones  to  weep. 

Infinit  streames  continually  did  well 

Out  of  this  fountaine,  sweet  and  faire  to  see, 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell, 

And  shortly  grew  into  so  great  quantitie, 
That  like  a  little  lake  it  seemed  to  bee; 

Whose  depths  exceeded  not  three  cubits  hight, 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom 

see, 

All  pav'd  with  Jaspar  shining  bright, 
That  seemed   the   fountaine   in   that   sea   did 
sayle  upright. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 
The  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  II,  Canto  XII. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I: 
In  a  crowslip's  bell  I  lie; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

[33] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


After  summer  merrily: 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet;  arise: 
Arise,  arise. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Under  the  greenwood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

[34] 


CEST  •  LHEURE  •  DE  •  BOIRE 


Who  doth  ambition  shun, 

And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Thus,  thus  begin   the  yearly  rites 
Are  due  to  Pan  on  these  bright  nights; 
His  morn  now  riseth  and  invites 
To  sports,  to  dances,  and  delights: 

All  envious  and  profane,  away, 

This  is  the  shepherd's  holyday. 

Strew,  strew  the  glad  and  smiling  ground 
With  every  flower,  yet  not  confound; 
The  primrose  drop,  the  spring's  own  spouse, 
Bright  day's  eyes  and  the  lips  of  cows; 
The  garden-star,  the  queen  of  May, 
The  rose,  to  crown  the  holyday. 

Drop,  drop,  you  violets;  change  your  hues, 
Now  red,  now  pale,  as  lovers  use; 

[35] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


And  in  your  death  go  out  as  well 
As  when  you  lived  unto  the  smell: 
That  from  your  odour  all  may  say, 
This  is  the  shepherd's  holyday. 

BEN  JONSON. 
The  Shepherd's  Holyday. 


My  Garden  sweet,  enclosed  with  walles  strong, 
Embanked  with  branches  to  sytt  and  take  my  rest ; 
The  knots  so  enknotted,  it  cannot  be  exprest, 
With  arbors  and  ayles  so  pleasant  and  so  dulce. 

CAVENDISH. 


If  they  to  whom  God  gives  fair  gardens  knew 
The  happy  solace  which  sweet  flowers  bestow ; 

Where  pain  depresses,  and  where  friends  are  few, 
To  cheer  the  heart  in  weariness  and  woe. 

ANON. 

Me  so  oft  my  fancy  drew 
Here  and  there,  that  I  ne'er  knew 
Where  to  place  desire  before 
So  that  range  it  might  no  more; 

[36] 


SIC  •  LABITUR  •  .ETAS 


But  as  he  that  passeth  by 
Where,  in  all  her  jollity, 
Flora's  riches  in  a  row 
Do  in  seemly  order  grow, 
And  a  thousand  flowers  stand 
Bending  as  to  kiss  his  hand  ; 
Out  of  which  delightful  store 
One  he  may  take  and  no  more; 
Long  he  pauseth  doubting  whether 
Of  those  fair  ones  he  should  gather. 

First  the  Primrose  courts  his  eyes, 
Then  a  Cowslip  he  espies; 
Next  the  Pansy  seems  to  woo  him, 
Then  Carnations  bow  unto  him; 
Which  whilst  that  enamoured  swain 
From  the  stock  intends  to  strain 
(As  half-  fearing  to  be  seen), 
Prettily  her  leaves  between 
Peeps  the  Violet,  pale  to  see 
That  her  virtues  slighted  be; 
Which  so  much  his  liking  wins, 
That  to  seize  her  he  begins. 

Yet  before  he  stooped  so  low 
He  his  wanton  eye  did  throw 

[37] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  t!T 

On  a  stem  that  grew  more  high, 
And  the  Rose  did  there  espy. 
Who,  beside  her  precious  scent, 
To  procure  his  eyes  content 
Did  display  her  goodly  breast, 
When  he  found  at  full  exprest 
All  the  good  that  Nature  showers 
On  a  thousand  other  flowers; 
Wherewith  he  affected  takes  it, 
His  beloved  flower  he  makes  it, 
And  without  desire  of  more 
Walks  through   all   he  saw  before. 


So  I  wandering  but  erewhere 
Through  the  garden  of  this  Isle, 
Saw  rich  beauties  I  confess, 
And  in  number  numberless. 
Yea,  so  differing  lovely  too, 
That  I  had  a  world  to  do, 
Ere  I  would  set  up  my  rest, 
Where  to  choose  and  choose  the  best. 
GEORGE  WITHER. 

Flos  Florum. 


[38] 


SOL  •  GLORIA  •  MUNDI 


I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness; 
And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 
It  only  loved  to  be  there. 
Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 
Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie, 
Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 
Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes; 
For,  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade, 
It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 
Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 
Until  its  lips  e'en  seem  to  bleed 
And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 
And  print  there  roses  on  my  lip, 
But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 
And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold  ; 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

A.  MARVELL. 

The    Nymph    Complaining   for    the    Death    of 
her  Fawn. 

[39] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


The  Garden 

Now  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays; 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb,  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose ! 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow; 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name: 

[40] 


LEARN  •  TO  •  VALUE  •  YOUR  •  TIME 

Little,  alas!  they  know  or  heed, 
How  far  these  beauties  her's  exceed! 
Fair  trees !  wheres'e'er  your  bark  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  that  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness; 

[41] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 


Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  slide: 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 


Such  was  that  happy  garden-state, 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate; 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there: 
Two  paradises  'twere  in  one; 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

[42] 


I  •  SHALL  •  GO  •  AND  •  RETURN 


How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers,  and  herbs,  this  dial  new; 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run, 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we! 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers? 

A.  MARVELL. 


Underneath  this  myrtle  shade, 

On  flowery  beds  supinely  laid, 

With  odorous  oils  my  head  o'erflowing, 

And  around  it  roses  growing, 

What  should  I  do  but  drink  away 

The  heat,  and  troubles  of  the  day? 

In  this  more  than  kingly  state, 

Love  himself  shall  on  me  wait. 

Fill  to  me,  Love,  nay  fill  it  up; 

And  mingled  cast  into  the  cup, 

Wit,  and  mirth,  and  noble  fires, 

Vigorous  health,  and  gay  desires. 

The  wheel  of  life  no  less  will  stay 
In  a  smooth  then  rugged  Way. 

[43] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Since  it  equally  does  flee, 
Let  the  motion  pleasant  be. 
Why  do  precious  ointments  shower, 
Nobler  wines  why  do  we  pour, 
Beauteous  flowers  why  do  we  spread, 
Upon  the  monuments  of  the  dead? 
Nothing  they  but  dust  can  show, 
Or  bones  that  hasten  to  be  so. 
Crown  me  with  roses  whilst  I  live, 
Now  your  wines  -and  ointments  give. 
After  death  I  nothing  crave, 
Let  me  alive  my  pleasures  have, 
All  are  Stoics  in  the  grave. 

A.  COWLEY. 


The  Wish 

Well  then;  I  now  do  plainly  see, 
This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree; 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 

Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy 

And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity, 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd,  and  buz,  and  murmurings 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city. 

[44] 


LIVE  •  TO-DAY 


Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  the  grave 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have  ! 
And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books,  both  true, 

Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too! 

And  since  Love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
A  mistress  moderately  fair, 
And  good  as  guardian  angels  are, 

Only  belov'd,  and  loving  me  ! 


Oh,  fountains,  when  in  you  shall  I 
Myself,  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts,  espy? 
Oh  fields!     Oh  woods!  when,  when  shall  I  be 
made 

The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade? 

Here's  the  spring-head  of  Pleasure's  flood; 
Where  all  the  riches  lie,  that  she 

Has  coin'd  and  stamp'd  for  good. 


Pride  and  ambition  here 
Only  in  far-fetch'd  metaphors  appear; 
Here   nought  but  winds  can   hurtful   murmurs 
scatter, 

And  nought  but  Echo  flatter. 

The  Gods,  when  they  descended,  hither 

[45] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way; 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say, 
That  'tis  the  way  too  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I, 
And  one  dear  She  live,  and  embracing  die! 
She  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 

In  deserts  solitude. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear, 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me, 

And  so  make  a  city  here. 

A.  COWLEY. 


The  bee  through  flowery  gardens  goes 

Buzzing  to  drink  the  morning's  tears, 

And  from  the  early  lily  bears 

A  kiss  commended  to  the  rose, 

And  like  a  wary  messenger, 

Whispers  some  amorous  story  to  his  ear. 

(XVIIth  Century), 


Have  ye  seen  the  morning  sky, 
When  the  dawn  prevails  on  high, 

[46] 


TIME  •  PASSES  •  FRIENDSHIP  •  STAYS 

When,  anon,  some  purple  ray 
Gives  a  sample  of  the  day, 
When,  anon,  the  lark,  on  wing, 
Strives  to  soar,  and  strains  to  sing? 

Have  ye  seen  the  ethereal  blue 
Gently  shedding  silvery  dew, 
Spangling  o'er  the  silent  green, 
While  the  nightingale,  unseen, 
To  the  moon  and  stars,  full  bright, 
Lonesome  chants  the  hymn  of  night? 

Have  ye  seen  the  broider'd  May 
All  her  scented  bloom  display, 
Breezes  opening,  every  hour, 
This,  and  that,  expecting  flower, 
While  the  mingling  birds  prolong, 
From  each  bush  the  vernal  song? 

Have  ye  seen  the  damask  rose 
Her  unsully'd  blush  disclose, 
Or  the  lily's  dewy  bell, 
In  her  glossy  white,  excell, 
Or  a  garden  vary'd  o'er 
With  a  thousand  glories  more? 

[47] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


By  the  beauties  these  display, 
Morning,  evening,  night,  or  day; 
By  the  pleasures  these  excite, 
Endless  sources  of  delight! 
Judge,  by  them,  the  joys  I  find. 

A.  PHILIPS. 
The  Happy  Swain. 


The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa'; 
The  pairtricks  down   the  rushy  holm 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's  song 

Rings  through  the  briery  shaw, 
While  flitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 


Beneath  the  golden  gloaming  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay; 
The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains 

To  charm  the  ling'ring  day; 

[48] 


THY  •  DAYS  •  BE  •  BRIGHT 


While  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn, 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Goes  j  inkling  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry 
The  simple  joys  that  Nature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

R.  TANNAHILL. 
The  Midges  Dance  Aboon  the  Burn. 


The  groves  of  Blarney 
They  look  so  charming, 
Down  by  the  purling 

Of  sweet  silent  streams, 
Being  banked  with  posies, 
That  spontaneous  grows  there, 
Planted  in  order 

By  the  sweet  rock  close. 

[49l 


U  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 

'Tis  there's  the  daisy 
And  the  sweet  carnation, 
The  blooming  pink, 

And  the  rose  so  fair; 
The  daffodowndilly — 
Likewise  the  lily, 
All  flowers  that  scent 

The  sweet  fragrant  air. 

There's  gravel  walks  there, 
For  speculation 
And  conversation 

In  sweet  solitude. 
'Tis  there  the  lover 
May  hear  the  dove,  or 
The  gentle  plover 

In  the  afternoon ; 
And  if  a  lady 
Would  be  so  engaging 
As  to  walk  alone  in 

Those  shady  bowers, 
'Tis  there  the  courtier 
He  may  transport  her 
Into  some  fort,  or 

All  under  ground. 

•  •  •  •  » 

[50] 


A  •  LA  •  BONNE  •  HEURE 


There's  statues  gracing 
This  noble  place  in  — 
All  heathen  gods 

And  nymphs  so  fair; 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch, 
And  Nicodemus, 
All  standing  naked. 

In  the  open  air! 
So  now  to  finish 
This  brave  narration, 
Which  my  poor  geni' 

Could  not  entwine  ; 
But  were  I  Homer, 
Or  Nebuchadnezzar, 
'Tis  in  every  feature 

I  would  make  it  shine. 

R.   A.    MlLLIKIN. 

The  Groves  of  Blarney. 


With  deep  devotion,  Nature,  did  I  feel, 
In  that  enormous  City's  turbulent  world 
Of  men  and  things,  what  benefit  I  owed 
To  thee,  and  those  domains  of  rural  peace, 
Where  to  the  sense  of  beauty  first  my  heart 

[51] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Was  opened;  tract  more  exquisitely  fair 
Than  that  famed  paradise  of  ten  thousand  trees, 
Or  Gehol's  matchless  gardens,  for  delight 
Of  the  Tartarian  dynasty  compared 
(Beyond  that  mighty  wall,  not  fabulous, 
China's  stupendous  mound)   by  patient  toil 
Of  myriads  and  boon  nature's  lavish  help; 
There,  in  a  clime  from  widest  empire  chosen, 
Fulfilling  (could  enchantment  have  done  more?) 
A  sumptuous  dream  of  flowery  lawns,  with  domes 
Of  pleasure  sprinkled  over,  shady  dells 
For  eastern  monasteries,  sunny  mounts 
With  temples  erected,  bridges,  gondolas, 
Rocks,  dens,  and  groves  of  foliage  taught  to  melt 
Into  each  other  their  obsequious  hues, 
Vanished  and  vanishing  in  subtle  chase, 
Too  fine  to  be  pursued  ;  or  standing  forth 
In  no  discordant  opposition,  strong 
And  gorgeous  as  the  colours  side  by  side 
Bedded  among  rich  plumes  of  tropic  birds; 
And  mountains  over  all,  embracing  all; 
And  all  the  landscape,  endlessly  enriched 
With  waters  running,  falling,  or  asleep. 
WILLIAM  WADSWORTH. 
The  Prelude,  Book  VIII,  Retrospect. 

[52] 


tf  AGE  •  QUOD  •  AGIS 


In  a  Persian  Garden 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 

A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
O,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come ; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum! 

Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us — "  Lo, 
Laughing,"  she  says,  "  into  the  world  I  blow, 

At  once  the  silken  tassel  of  my  Purse 
Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throw." 

And  those  who  husbanded  the  golden  grain 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  winds  like  Rain 

Alike  of  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turned 
As,  buried  once,  men  want  dug  up  again. 

***** 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai 

Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

[53] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank 

deep: 

And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter  —  the  wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break  his  sleep. 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  rose  as  when  some  buried  Caesar  bled; 
That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  head. 

And  this  reviving  Herb  whose  tender  green 
Fledges  the  River-Lip  on  which  we  lean  — 
Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly!  for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  lip  it  springs  unseen! 
EDWARD  FITZ  GERALD. 
Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam. 


A  Song  of  Phaeacia 

The  Languid  sunset,  mother  of  roses, 
Lingers,  a  light  on  the  magic  seas, 

The  wide  fire  flames,  as  a  flower  encloses, 
Heavy  with  odour,  and  loose  to  the  breeze. 

[54] 


TO-DAY  •  is  •  YESTERDAYS  •  PUPIL 

The  red  rose  clouds,  without  law  or  leader, 
Gather  and  float  in  the  airy  plain; 

The  nightingale  sings  to  the  dewy  cedar, 
The  cedar  scatters  his  scent  to  the  main. 

The  strange  flowers'  perfume  turns  to  singing, 

Heard  afar  over  moonlit  seas; 
The  Siren's  song,  grown  faint  in  winging, 

Falls  in  scent  on  the  cedar  trees. 

As  waifs  blown  out  of  the  sunset,  flying, 
Purple,  and  rosy,  and  grey,  the  birds 

Brighten  the  air  with  their  wings;  their  crying 
Wakens  a  moment  the  weary  herds. 

Butterflies  flit  from  the  fairy  garden, 
Living  blossoms  of  flying  flowers; 

Never  the  nights  with  winter  harden, 
Nor  moons  wax  keen  in  this  land  of  ours. 

Great  fruits,  fragrant,  green  and  golden, 
Gleam  in  the  green,  and  droop  and  fall; 

Blossom,  and  bud,  and  flowers  unfolden, 
Swing,  and  cling  to  the  garden  wall. 

[55] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Deep  in  the  woods  as  twilight  darkens, 
Glades  are  red  with  the  scented  fire; 

Far  in  the  dells  the  white  maid  hearkens, 
Song  and  sigh  of  the  heart's  desire. 

Ah,  and  as  moonlight  fades  in  morning, 
Maiden's  song  in  the  matin  grey, 

Faint  as  the  first  bird's  note,  a  warning, 
Wakes  and  wails  to  the  new-born  day. 

The  waking,  song  and  the  dying  measure 

Meet,  and  the  waxing  and  waning  light 
Meet,  and  faint  with  the  hours  of  pleasure, 
The  rose  of  the  sea  and  sky  is  white. 
ANDREW  LANG. 
Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old  France. 


For  lo, — a  garden-place  I  found, 

Well  filled  of  leaves,  and  stilled  of  sound, 

Well  flowered,  with  red  fruit  marvellous; 
And  'twixt  the  shining  trunks  would  flit 
Tall  knights  and  silken  maids,  or  sit 

With  faces  bent  and  amorous; — 

[56] 


THINK  •  AND  •  THANK 


There,  in  the  heart  thereof,  and  crowned 
With  woodbine  and  amaracus, 
My  Love,  I  found. 

*         *         *         *         * 

"  This  is  well  done,"  —  she  said,  —  "  in  thee, 
O  Love,  that  thou  art  come  to  me, 

To  this  green  garden  glorious; 
Now  truly  shall  our  life  be  sped 
In  joyance  and  all  goodlihead, 

For  here  all  things  are  fair  to  us, 
And  none  with  burden  is  oppressed, 

And  none  is  poor  or  piteous,  — 
For  here  is  Rest: 


"  No  formless  Future  blurs  the  sky ; 
Men  mourn  not  here,  with  dull  dead  eye, 

By  shrouded  shapes  of  Yesterday; 
Betwixt  the  Coming  and  the  Past. 
The  flawless  life  hangs  fixen  fast 

In  one  unwearying  To-Day, 
That  darkens  not;  for  Sin  is  striven, 
Death  from  the  doors  is  thrust  away, 
And  here  is  Heaven." 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
A  Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven. 

[57] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


A  Garden  in  Spring 

How    the    lilacs,    the    lilacs    are    glowing    and 

blowing ! 
And  white   through   the   delicate   verdure   of 

May 
The   blossoming    boughs    of   the   hawthorn    are 

showing, 

Like  beautiful  brides  in  their  bridal  array; 
With  cobwebs  for  laces,  and  dewdrops  for 

pearls, 
Fine  as  a  queen's  dowry  for  workaday  girls. 


And    the   lilacs,    the    lilacs    are    blowing    and 

glowing ! 
They  pluck  them  by  handfulls  and  pile  in  a 

mass 
And    the   sap    of   the   Springtide   is    rising  and 

flowing 
Through    the   veins   of    the    greenwood,    the 

blades  of  the  grass: 

Up,  up,  to  the  last  leaf  a  dance  on  the  tree, 
It  leaps  like  a  fountain  abundant  and  free. 

[58] 


NONEO  •  DUM  •  MOVED 


The  blackbirds  are  building  their  nests  in   the 

bushes, 

And  whistle  at  work,  as  the  work  people  do  ; 
The  trees  swing  their  censors,  the  wind  comes  in 

gushes 

Of  delicate  scent  mixed  of  honey  and  dew. 
Now  loud  and  now  low  through  the  gar- 

rulous trees 

A  burst  of  gay  music  is  blown  with  the 
breeze. 

Oh,  the  lilacs,  the  lilacs  are  glowing  and  blowing  ! 

They  pluck  them  by  bushels  as  blithely  they  go 

Through  the  green,  scented  dusk  where  the  haw- 

thorn is  showing 

A  luminous  whiteness  of  blossoming  snow. 
And  the  Sun  ere  he  goes  gives  the  Moon 

half  his  light, 

As   a   Lamp    to   lead    Love   on    the   bridal 
Night.  MATHILDE  BLIND. 

A  Bridal  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

The  wassailous  heart  of  the  Year  is  thine! 
His  Bacchic  ringers  disentwine 

His  coronal 

At  thy  festival; 

[59] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


His  revelling  fingers  disentwine 
Leaf,  flower,  and  all, 
And  let  them  fall 

Blossom  and  all  in  thy  wavering  wine. 
The  Summer  looks  out  from  her  brazen  tower, 

Through  the  flashing  bars  of  July, 
Waiting  thy  ripened  golden  shower; 

Whereof  there  cometh,  with  sandals  fleet, 

The  North-west  flying  viewlessly, 
With  a  sword  to  sheer,  and  untameable  feet, 
And  the  Gorgon-head  of  the  Winter  shown 
To  stiffen  the  gazing  earth  as  stone. 
*         #         *         *         * 

Still,  mighty  Season,  do  I  see't, 
Thy  sway  is  still  majestical 
Thou  hold'st  of  God  by  title  sure, 
Thine  indefeasible  investiture, 

And  that  right  round  thy  locks  are  native  to; 
The  heavens  upon  thy  brow  imperial, 

This  huge  terrene  thy  ball, 
And   o'er   thy  shoulders  thrown  wide  air's  de- 

pending pall 
What  if  thine  earth  be  blear  and  bleak  of  hue? 

Still,  still  the  skies  are  sweet! 
Still,    Season,    still    thou    hast   thy    triumphs 
there  ! 

[60] 


tl  NE  •  QUID  •  PEREAT  U 

How  have  I,  unaware, 
Forgetful  of  my  strain  inaugural, 

Cleft  the  great  rondure  of  thy  reign  complete, 
Yielding  the  half,  who  hast  indeed  the  all? 
I  will  not  think  thy  sovereignty  begun 

But  with  the  shepherd  Sun 
That  washes  in  the  sea  the  stars'  gold  fleeces; 

Or  that  with  Day  it  ceases, 
Who  sets  his  burning  lips  to  the  salt  brine, 

And  purples  it  to  wine ; 
While  I  behold  how  ermined  Artemis 
Ordained  weed  must  wear, 
And  toil  thy  business; 
WTio  witness  am  of  her, 
Her  too  in  autumn  turned  a  vintager; 
And,  laden  with  its  lamped  clusters  bright, 
The  fiery-fruited  vineyard  of  this  night. 
FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 
A  Corymbus  for  Autumn. 


I  have  a  secret  garden 
Where  sacred  lilies  lift 

White  faces  kind  with  pardon 
To  hear  my  shrift. 

[61] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


And  all  blood-riot  falters 

Before  those  faces  there; 
Bowed  down  at  quiet  altars, 

Mine  hours  are  monks  at  prayer. 

Oh  through  my  spirit  kneeling, 
The  silence  thrills  and  sings 

The  cosmic  brother  feeling 
Of  growing,  hopeful  things; 

Old  soothing  Earth  a  mother, 
A  sire  the  stooping  Blue; 

The  Sun  a  mighty  Brother  — 
And  God  is  in  the  dew. 

Oh,  Garden  hushed  and  splendid 

With  lily,  star  and  tree! 
There  all  wild  dreams  are  ended  — 
Oh,  come  with  me! 

JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT. 

The  Fugitive  Glory. 


[62] 


The  Garden  of  Love 


HOURS  •  FLY, 
FLOWERS  •  DIE, 
NEW  •  DAYS, 
NEW  •  WAYS, 
PASS  •  BY ; 
LOVE  «  STAYS. 


SO  •  FLIES  •  LIFE  •  AWAY 


foici  Notre  Heure 

She  led  me,  hand  in  hand,  and  we  went  into  her 
garden  to  converse  together. 

There  she  made  me  taste  of  excellent  honey. 

The  rushes  of  the  garden  were  verdant,  and  all 
its  bushes  flourishing. 

There  were  currant  trees  and  cherries  redder 
than  rubies. 

The  ripe  peaches  (the  Persian  fruit)  of  the  gar- 
den resembled  bronze,  and  the  groves  had 
the  lustre  of  the  stone  nashem  (green 
felspar). 

The  menni  unshelled  like  cocoanuts  they  brought 
us;  its  shade  was  fresh  and  airy,  and  soft 
for  the  repose  of  love. 

"  Come  to  me,"  she  called  unto  me,  "  and  enjoy 
thyself  a  day  .  .  .  the  garden  is  to-day  in 
its  glory:  there  is  a  terrace  and  a  parlour." 

(An  Egyptian  Poem.   Written  about  1 300  B.C.    Taken  from  "  The 
Tale  of  the  Garden  of  Flowers."  Translated  by  M.  Francois  Chabas.) 

(Records  of  the  Poret,  Egyptian  Texts). 
[65] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


A  Grecian  Garden 

(Translated  by  Andrew  Lang.) 

Then  he  bent  his  way  to  the  left,  and  took  the 
road  to  Pyxa,  while  I  and  Eucritus,  with  beau- 
tiful Amyntas,  turned  to  the  farm  of  Phrasi- 
demus.  There  we  reclined  on  deep  beds  of 
fragrant  lentisk,  lowly  strewn,  and  rejoicing  we 
lay  in  new  stript  leaves  of  the  vine.  And  high 
above  our  heads  waved  many  a  poplar,  many  an 
elm  tree,  while  close  at  hand  the  sacred  water 
from  the  nymphs'  own  cave  welled  forth  with 
murmurs  musical.  On  shadowy  boughs  the 
burnt  cicadas  kept  their  chattering  toil,  far  off 
the  little  owl  cried  in  the  thick  thorn  brake,  the 
larks  and  finches  were  singing,  the  ring-dove 
moaned,  the  yellow  bees  were  flitting  about  the 
springs.  All  breathed  the  scent  of  the  opulent 
summer,  of  the  season  of  fruits;  pears  at  our 
feet  and  apples  by  our  sides  were  rolling  plenti- 
ful, the  tender  branches,  with  wild  plums  laden, 
were  earthward  bowed. 

Theocritus,  Idyl  XII. 


[66] 


U"  ICH  •  DIEN  tT 

Amonges  othere  of  his  honeste  thynges 
He  made  a  gardyn  walled  al  with  stoon. 
So  fair  a  gardyn  woot  I  nowker  noon, 
For  out  of  doute,  I  verraily  suppose 
That  he  wroot  the  romance  of  the  Rose 
Ne  koude  of  it  the  beautee  wel  devyse 
Ne  Priapus  me  myghte  nat  suffise, 
Though  he  be  god  of  gardyns,  for  to  telle 
The  beautee  of  the  gardyn,  and  the  welle, 
That  stood  under  a  laurer,  alwey  grene. 
Ful  of  te  tyme  he  Pluto,  and  his  queene 
Proserpina,  and  al  hire  fairye, 
Disporten  hem  and  maken  melodye 
About  that  welle,  and  dannced  as  men  tolde. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 
Canterbury   Tales,  The  Merchant's  Tale. 


The  Garden  of  Proserpina 

The  Gardin  of  Proserpina  this  hight; 
And  in  the  midst  thereof  a  silver  seat, 
With  a  thick  Arber  goodly  over-dight, 
In  which  she  often  used  from  open  heat 
Her  selfe  to  shroud,  and  pleasures  to  entreat; 

[67] 


U  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  T$ 

Next  thereunto  did  grow  a  goodly  tree, 
With  branches  broad  dispredd  and  body  great, 
Clothed  with  leaves,  that  none  like  wood  mote 

see, 
And  loaden  all  with  fruit  as  thick  as  it  might  bee. 


Their  fruit  were  golden  apples  glistning  bright, 
That  goodly  was  their  glory  to  behold: 
On  earth  like  never  grew,  ne  living  wight 
Like  ever  saw,  but  they  from  hence  were  sold; 
For  those  which  Hercules,  with  conquest  bold 
Got  from  great  Atlas  daughters,  hence  began, 
And  planted  there  did  bring  forth  fruit  of  gold; 
And  those  with  which  th'  Eubcean  young  man 

wan 
Swift  Atalanta,  when  through  craft  he  her  out 

ran. 


Here  also  sprong  that  goodly  golden  fruit, 
With  which  Acontius  got  his  lover  trew, 
Whom  he  had  long  time  sought  with  fruitlesse 

suit: 

Here  eke  the  famous  golden  Apple  grew, 
The  which  emongst  the  gods  false  Ate  threw; 

[68] 


MUNDI  •  OCULOS 


For  which  th'  Idaean  Ladies  disagreed, 
Till  partial  Paris  dempt  it  Venus  dew, 
And  had  of  her  fayre  Helen  for  his  meed, 
That  many  noble  Greekes  and  Trojans  made  to 

bleed.  „  r 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 

The  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  II,  Canto  XII. 


The  Garden  of  Adonis 

She  brought  her  to  her  joyous  Paradize, 
Wher  most  she  wonnes  when  she  on  earth  does 

dwell ; 

So  faire  a  place  as  Nature  can  devize: 
Whether  in  Paphos,  or  Cytheron  hill, 
Or  it  in  Gnidus  bee,  I  wote  not  well; 
But  well  I  wote  by  triall,  that  this  same 
All  other  pleasaunt  places  doth  excell, 
And  called  is  by  her  lost  lover's  name, 
The  Gardin  of  Adonis,  far  renowned  by  fame. 

In  that  same  Gardin  all  the  goodly  flowres,   . 
Wherewith  dame  Nature  doth  her  beautify, 
And  decks  the  girlonds  of  her  Paramoures, 
Are  fetcht:  there  is  the  first  seminary 

[69] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Of  all  things  that  are  borne  to  live  and  dye, 
According  to  their  kynds.     Long  Xvorke  it  were 
Here  to  account  the  endless  progeny 
Of  all  the  weeds  that  bud  and  blossome  there; 
But  so  much  as  doth  need  must  needs  be  counted 
here. 

It  sited  was  in  fruitfull  soyle  of  old, 

And  girt  in  with  two  walls  on  either  side; 

The  one  of  yron,  the  other  of  bright  gold, 

That  none  might  thorough  breake,  nor  overstride. 

And  double  gates  it  had  which  opened  wide, 

By  which  both  in  and  out  men  moten  pas: 

Th'  one  faire  and  fresh,  the  other  old  and  dride, 

Old  Genius  the  porter  of  them  was, 

Old  Genius,  the  which  a  double  nature  has. 

He  letteth  in,  he  letteth  out  to  wend 
All  that  to  come  into  the  world  desire: 
A  thousand  thousand  naked  babes  attend 
About  him  day  and  night,  which  doe  require 
That  he  with  fleshly  weeds  would  them  attire: 
Such  as  him  list,  such  as  eternall  fate 
Ordained  hath,  he  clothes  with  sinfull  mire, 
And  sendeth  forth  to  live  in  mortall  state, 
Till  they  agayn  returne  backe  by  the  hinder  gate. 

[70] 


NOW  •  OR  •  WHEN 


After  that  they  againe  returned  beene, 
They  in  that  Gardin  planted  bee  agayne, 
And  grow  afresh,  as  they  had  never  scene 
Fleshly  corruption,  nor  mortall  payne, 
Some  thousand  yeares  so  doen  they  there  remayne, 
And  then  of  him  are  clad  with  other  hew, 
Or  sent  into  the  chaungefull  world  agayne, 
Till  thither  they  retourne  where  first  they  grew  : 
So,  like  a  wheele,  arownd  they  ronne  from  old 
to  new. 

Ne  needs  there  Gardiner  to  sett  or  sow, 
To  plant  or  prune;  for  of  their  owne  accord 
All  things,  as  they  created  were,  doe  grow, 
And  yet  remember  well  the  mighty  word 
Which  first  was  spoken  by  th'  Almighty  Lord, 
That  bad  them  to  increase  and  multiply: 
Ne  doe  they  need  with  water  of  the  ford, 
Or  of  the  clouds,  to  moysten  their  roots  dry; 
For  in  themselves  eternall  moisture  they  imply. 

Infinite  shapes  of  creatures  there  are  bred, 
And  uncouth  formes,  which  none  yet  ever  knew: 
And  every  sort  is  in  a  sondry  bed 
Sett  by  itselfe,  and  ranckt  in  comely  rew; 
Some  fitt  for  reasonable  sowles  t'  indew, 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Some  made  for  beasts,  some  made  for  birds  to 

weare  ; 

And  all  the  fruitfull  spawne  of  fishes  hew 
In  endlesse  rancks  along  enraunged  were, 
That  seemd  the  Ocean  could  not  containe  them 

there. 

Daily  they  grow,  and  daily  forth  are  sent 

Into  the  world,  it  to  replenish  more; 

Yet  is  the  stocke  not  lessened  nor  spent, 

But  still  remaines  in  everlasting  store, 

As  it  at  first  created  was  of  yore: 

For  in  the  wide  wombe  of  the  world  there  lyes, 

In  hatefull  darknes  and  in  deepe  horrore, 

An  huge  eternall  chaos,  which  supplyes 

The  substaunces  of  nature's  fruitfull  progenyes. 

All  things  from  thence  doe  their  first  being  fetch, 

And  borrow  matter  whereof  they  are  made; 

Which,  whenas  forme  and  feature  it  does  ketch, 

Becomes  a  body,  and  doth  then  invade 

The  state  of  life  out  of  the  griesly  shade. 

That  substance  is  eterne,  and  bideth  so  ; 

Ne  when  the  life  decayes  and  forme  does  fade, 

Doth  it  consume  and  into  nothing  goe, 

But  chaunged  is,  and  often  altred  to  and  froe. 

[72] 


LOVE  •  NEVER  •  FAILETH 


The  substance  is  not  chaunged  nor  altered, 

But  th'  only  forme  and  outward  fashion; 

For  every  substance  is  conditioned 

To  chaunge  her  hew,  and  sondry  formes  to  don, 

Meet  for  her  temper  and  complexion: 

For  formes  are  variable  and  decay 

By  course  of  kinde  and  by  occasion  ; 

And  that  faire  flowre  of  beautie  fades  away, 

As  doth  the  lily  fresh  before  the  sunny  ray. 

Great  enimy  to  it,  and  to  all  the  rest 
That  in  the  Gardin  of  Adonis  springs, 
Is  wicked  Tyme:  who  with  his  scythe  addrest 
Does  mow  the  flowring  herbes  and  goodly  things, 
And  all  their  glory  to  the  ground  downe  flings, 
Where  they  do  wither,  and  are  fowly  mard  : 
He  flyes  about,  and  with  his  flaggy  winges 
Beates    downe   both    leaves    and    buds    without 

regard, 
Ne  ever  pitty  may  relent  his  malice  hard. 

Yet  pitty  often  did  the  gods  relent, 
To  see  so  faire  thinges  mard  and  spoiled  quight; 
And  their  great  mother  Venus  did  lament 
The  losse  of  her  deare  brood,  her  deare  delight: 
Her  hart  was  pierst  with  pitty  at  the  sight, 

[73] 


tT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

When   walking  through   the   Gardin   them   she 

saw, 

Yet  no'te  she  find  redresse  for  such  despight: 
For  all  that  lives  is  subject  to  that  law; 
All  things  decay  in  time,  and  to  their  end  doe 

draw. 

But  were  it  not  that  Time  their  troubler  Is, 
All  that  in  this  delightfull  Gardin  growes 
Should  happy  bee,  and  have  immortall  blis: 
For  here  all  plenty  and  all  pleasure  flowes; 
And    sweete    love    gentle    fitts    emongst    them 

throwes, 

Without  fel  rancor  or  fond  gealosy. 
Franckly  each  Paramor  his  leman  knpwes, 
Each  bird  his  mate:  ne  any  does  envy 
Their  goodly  meriment  and  gay  felicity. 

There  is  continuall  Spring,  and  harvest  there 

Continuall,  both  meeting  at  one  tyme; 

For   both    the    boughes    doe    laughing   blossoms 

beare, 

And  with  fresh  colours  decke  the  wanton  Pryme, 
And  eke  attonce  the  heavy  trees  they  clyme, 
Which  seeme  to  labour  under  their  fruites  lode: 

[74] 


THROUGH  •  SHADOW  •  LOVE  •  COMES 

The  whiles  the  joyous  bi'rdes  make  their  pastyme 
Emongst  the  shady  leaves,  their  sweet  abode, 
And    their    trew    loves    without    suspicion    tell 
abrode. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 
The  Faerie  Queene,  Book  III,  Canto  VI. 


Cherry  Ripe 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 
Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow. 

There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 
Till  "  Cherry-ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 


Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 

Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  filled  with  snow; 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  "  Cherry-ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 

[75] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still; 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt  with  eye  or  hand 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh 
Till  "  Cherry-ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 

THOMAS  CAMPION. 


Love  in  the  Garden 

See'st  not,  my  love,  with  what  a  grace 
The  Spring  resembles  thy  sweet  face? 
Here  let  us  sit,  and  in  these  bowers 
Receive  the  odours  of  the  flowers, 
For   Flora,  by  thy  beauty  woo'd  conspires  thy 
good. 

See  how  she  sends  her  fragrant  sweet, 

And  doth  this  homage  to  thy  feet, 

Bending  so  low  her  stooping  head 

To  kiss  the  ground  where  thou  dost  tread, 

And  all  her  flowers  proudly  meet,  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

[76] 


PRAISE  •  A  •  FAIR  •  DAY  •  AT  •  NIGHT 

Then  let  us  walk,  my  dearest  love, 
And  on  this  carpet  strictly  prove 
Each  other's  vow;  from  thy  request 
No  other  love  invades  my  breast. 
For  how  can  I  contemn  that  fire  which  Gods 
admire? 

To  crop  that  rose  why  dost  thou  seek, 
When  there's  a  purer  in  thy  cheek? 
Like  coral  held  in  thy  fair  hands, 
Or  blood  and  milk  that  mingled  stands: 
To  whom  the  Powers  and  grace  have  given,  a 
type  of  Heaven. 

Yon  lily  stooping  t'wards  this  place, 
Is  a  pale  shadow  for  thy  face, 
Under  which  veil  doth  seem  to  rush 
Modest  Endymion's  ruddy  blush. 
A  blush,  indeed,  more  pure  and  fair  than  lilies 
are. 

Glance  on  those  flowers  thy  radiant  eyes, 

Through  which  clear  beams  they'll  sympathize 

Reflective  love,  to  make  them  far 

More  glorious  than  th'  Hesperian  star, 

For  every  swain  amazed  lies,  and  gazing  dies. 

[771 


U  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

See  how  these  silly  flowers  twine, 
With  sweet  embracings,  and  combine, 
Striving  with  curious  looms  to  set 
Their  pale  and  red  into  a  net, 
To   show   how   pure  desire  doth   rest  for  ever 
blest. 

Why  wilt  thou  then  unconstant  be? 
T'  infringe  the  laws  of  amity, 
And  so  much  disrespect  my  heart 
To  derogate  from  what  thou  art? 
When  in  harmonious  love  there  is  Elysian  bliss. 

W.  BOSWORTH. 


Spring  in  a  Garden 

Though  you  be  absent  here,  I  needs  must  say 
The  trees  as  beauteous  are,  and  flowers  as  'gay, 

As  ever  they  were  wont  to  be ; 

Nay  the  birds'  rural  music  too 

Is  as  melodious  and  free, 

As  if  they  sung  to  pleasure  you : 
I  saw  a  rose-bud  ope  this  morn ;  I'll  swear 
The  blushing  morning  open'd  not  more  fair. 

[78] 


IT  •  IS  •  LATER  •  THAN  •  YOU  •  THINK 

How  could  it  be  so  fair,  and  you  away? 

How  could  the  trees  be  beauteous,  flowers  so  gay? 
Could  they  remember  but  last  year, 
How  you  did  them,  they  you  delight, 
The  sprouting  leaves  which  saw  you  here, 
And  called  their  fellows  to  the  sight, 

Would,  looking  round  for  the  same  sight  in  vain, 

Creep  back  into  their  silent  barks  again. 

Where'er   you   walk'd    trees   were   as    reverend 
made, 

As  when  of  old  gods  dwelt  in  every  shade. 
Is't  possible  they  should  not  know, 
What  loss  of  honour  they  sustain, 
That  thus  they  smile  and  flourish  now, 
And  still  their  former  pride  retain? 

Dull  creatures!  'tis  not  without  cause  that  she, 

Who  fled  the  god  of  wit,  was  made  a  tree. 

In  ancient  times  sure  they  much  wiser  were, 
When  they  rejoic'd  the  Thracian  verse  to  hear; 
In  vain  did  nature  bid  them  stay, 
When  Orpheus  had  his  song  begun, 
They  call'd  their  wondering  roots  away, 
And  bade  them  silent  to  him  run. 

[79] 


tT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


How  would  those  learned  trees  have  followed 

you? 
You  would  have  drawn  them,  and  their  poet  too. 


But  who  can  blame  them  now?  for,  since  you're 
gone, 

They're  here  the  only  fair,  and  shine  alone. 
You  did  their  natural  rights  invade; 
Where  ever  you  did  walk  or  sit, 
The  thickest  boughs  could  make  no  shade, 
Although  the  Sun  had  granted  it: 

The  fairest  flowers  could  please  no  more,  near 
you, 

Than  painted  flowers,  set  next  to  them,  could  do. 


When  e'er  then  you  come  hither,  that  shall  be 
The  time,  which  this  to  others  is,  to  me. 

The  little  joys  which  here  are  now, 

The  name  of  punishments  do  bear; 

When  by  their  sight  they  let  us  know 

How  we  depriv'd  of  greater  are. 
'Tis  you  the  best  of  seasons  with  you  bring ; 
This  is  for  beasts,  and  that  for  men  the  Spring. 

A.  COWLEY. 

[80] 


TU  LOVE  •  HAS  •  EYES 


His  spacious  garden  made  to  yield  to  none, 
Was  compass'd  round  with  walls  of  solid  stone; 
Priapus  could  not  half  describe  the  grace 
(Tho'  God  of  gardens)  of  this  charming  place: 
A  place  to  fire  the  rambling  wits  of  France 
In  long  descriptions,  and  exceed  Romance  ; 
Enough  to  shame  the  gentlest  bard  that  sings 
Of  painted  meadows,  and  of  purling  springs, 
Full  in  the  centre  of  the  flow'ry  ground, 
A  crystal  fountain  spread  its  streams  around, 
The  fruitful  banks  with  verdant  laurels  crown'd  : 
About  this  spring  (if  ancient  fame  say  true) 
The  dapper  Elves  their  moonlight  sports  pursue: 
Their  pigmy  king,  and  little  fairy  queen, 
In  circling  dances  gamboll'd  on  the  green, 
While  tuneful  sprites  a  merry  concert  made, 
And  airy  music  warbled  thro'  the  glade. 
ALEXANDER  POPE. 

January  and  May. 


Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  many  flowers 
Plucked  in  the  garden,  all  the  summer  through 
And  winter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  grew 
In    this   close    room,    nor    missed    the    sun    and 
showers, 

[81] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


So,  in  the  like  name  of  that  love  of  ours, 
Take  back  these  thoughts  which  here  unfolded 

too, 

And  which  on  warm  and  cold  days  I  withdrew 
From   my   heart's   ground.      Indeed,    those   beds 

and  bowers 

Be  overgrown  with  bitter  weeds  and  rue, 
And  wait  thy  weeding;  yet  here's  eglantine, 
Here's  ivy!  —  take  them,  as  I  used  to  do 
Thy  flowers,   and   keep  them  where  they   shall 

not  pine. 

Instruct  thine  eyes  to  keep  their  colours  true, 
And  tell  thy  soul  their  roots  are  left  in  mine. 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 
"Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese" 


The  Flower's  Name 


Here's  the  garden  she  walked  across, 
Arm  in  arm,  such  a  short  while  since: 

Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 
Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince! 

[82] 


EITHER  •  LEARN  •  OR  •  GO 


She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 
As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung; 

For   she   laid    the    poor   snail,   my   chance   foot 

spurned, 
To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 


II 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel  walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the 

box: 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by! 
She  loves  you  noble  roses,  I  know ; 

But,  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie! 


Ill 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim; 

Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 
Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name: 

[83] 


tl  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 

What  a  name!     Was  it  love  or  praise? 

Speech  half-asleep  or  song  half-awake? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  low  sweet  name's  sake. 

IV 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase; 
But  do  not  detain  me  now ;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 


Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  for  ever! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  'tis  that  you  blow  not: 

Mind,  the  sweet  pink  mouth  opens  never! 
For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle — 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen? 

[84] 


NEVER- TO  •  BE -RECALLED 


VI 


Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish; 
Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with 

me? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall! 
— Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces — 
Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all! 
ROBERT  BROWNING. 

Garden  Fancies. 


Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud! 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

[85] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  a  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine, 

[86] 


I  •  HEAR  •  AND  •  I  •  WAIT 


O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  swore  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  Soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the 
wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 
As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 

[87] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lillies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  glare  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 
From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate, 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 

The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near  "  ; 
And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late  "; 

The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear  "  ; 
And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 

[88] 


MY  •  REDEEMER  •  LIVETH 


My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 
And  blossom  is  purple  and  red. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Maud. 


I  know  a  little  garden-close 
Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose, 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might. 
From  dewy  dawn  to  dewy  night, 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

And  though  within  it  no  birds  sing, 
And  though  no  pillar'd  house  is  there, 
And  though  the  apple  boughs  are  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,   would   to  God, 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod, 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before! 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Nymph's  Song  to  Hylas. 


[89] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


In  a  Bower 

A  path  led  hither  from  the  house 

Where  I  have  left  your  doubt  and  pain, 

0  fettered  days  of  all  my  past; 

1  lingered  long,  but  came  at  last; 
One  lifting  up  of  fragrant  boughs, 

Then  love  was  here  and  broke  my  chain 

With  eager  hands:  the  die  is  cast, 
No  path  leads  back  again. 

Henceforth,  cold  tyrant  of  my  heart, 
You  rule  no  longer  pulse  or  breath ; 
Love,  with  rich  words  and  kisses  hot, 
Has  told  me  truth  in  this  charmed  spot; 
And,  though  your  hand  this  hour  should  part 
The  leaves,  I  have  no  thought,  but  saith 

My  life  is  Love's :  I  fear  you  not, 
Now  you  are  only  Death. 

And  Death  creeps  up  the  garden  walk; 
But  Love  hastes,  winning  more  and  more: 
My  hands,  my  mouth,  are  his,  my  hair, 
My  breasts,  as  all  my  first  thoughts  were; 

[90] 


LOVE  •  NEVER  •  FAILETH 


Across  the  moonlit  sward  Death  stalks; 
But  Love  upon  this  flower-strewn  floor 
Hath  made  me  wholly  his  ;  ah,  then  ! 
Death  stands  outside  the  door. 

ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 


In  Eastern  lands  they  talk  in  flowers, 

And   they  tell   in   a   garland  their  loves  and 
cares ; 

Each  blossom  that  blooms  in  their  garden  bowers 
On  its  leaves  a  mystic  language  bears. 

The  rose  is  a  sign  of  joy  and  love, 

Young,  blushing  love  in  its  earliest  dawn; 

And  the  mildness  that  suits  the  gentle  dove 
From  the  myrtle's  snowy  flower  is  drawn. 

Innocence  shines  in  the  lily's  bell 

Pure  as  the  heart  in  its  native  heaven; 

Fame's  bright  star  and  glory's  swell 
In  the  glossy  leaf  of  the  bay  is  given. 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


The  silent,  soft,  and  humble  heart 

In  the  violets  hidden  sweetness  breathes; 

And  the  tender  soul  that  cannot  part 
A  twine  of  evergreen  fondly  wreathes. 

The  cypress,  that  daily  shades  the  grave, 
In  sorrow  that  mournes  her  bitter  lot; 

And  faith,  that  a  thousand  ills  can  brave, 
Speaks  in  thy  blue  leaves,  forget-me-not. 


Then  gather  a  wreath  from  the  garden  flowers, 
And  tell  the  wish  of  thy  heart  in  flowers. 

PERCIVAL. 

(Quoted  from  Helen  Milman's  "  My  Kalendar  of  Country  Delights.") 


A  Garden  Lyric 

We  have  loiter'd  and  laugh'd  in  the  flowery  croft, 
We  have  met  under  wintry  skies; 

Her  voice  is  the  dearest  voice,  and  soft 
Is  the  light  in  her  gentle  eyes; 

[92] 


LOVE  •  IS  •  KIND  ET 


It  is  sweet  in  the  silent  woods,  among 

Gay  crowds,  or  in  any  place 
To  hear  voice,  to  gaze  on  her  young 

Confiding  face. 

For  ever  may  roses  divinely  blow, 

And  wine-dark  pansies  charm 
By  the  prim  box  path  where  I  felt  the  glow 

Of  her  dimpled,  trusting  arm, 
And   the  sweep  of  her  silk  as  she  turn'd   and 
smiled 

A  smile  as  pure  as  her  pearls; 
The  breeze  was  in  love  with  the  darling  Child, 

As  it  moved  her  curls. 

She  show'd  me  her  ferns  and  woodbine-sprays, 

Foxglove  and  jasmine  stars, 
A  mist  of  blue  in  the  beds,  a  blaze 

Of  red  in  the  celadon  jars: 
And  velvety  bees  in  convolvulus  bells, 

And  roses  of  bountiful  June  — 
Oh,  who  would  think  their  summer  spells 

Could  die  so  soon! 

For  a  glad  song  came  from  the  milking  shed, 
On  a  wind  of  the  summer  south, 

[93] 


tT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

And  the  green  was  golden  above  her  head, 
And  a  sunbeam  kiss'd  her  mouth; 

Sweet  were  the  lips  where  that  sunbeam  dwelt; 
And  the  wings  of  Time  were  fleet 

As  I  gazed;  and  neither  spoke,  for  we  felt 
Life  was  so  sweet! 

And  the  odorous  limes  were  dim  above 

As  we  leant  on  a  drooping  bough; 
And  the  darkling  air  was  a  breath  of  love, 

And  a  witching  thrush  sang  "  Now!  " 
For  the  sun  dropt  low,  and  the  twilight  grew 

As  we  listen'd,  and  sigh'd,  and  leant; 
That  day  was  the  sweetest  day — and  we  knew 

What  the  sweetness  meant. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 
London  Lyrics. 


Lovers  in  a  Garden 

A  maiden,  in  a  garden,  dreaming 
Of  fairy-prince  and  halcyon  days; 

Her  head,  with  sunny  tresses  gleaming, 
Bow'd  down  beneath  dim  trellis'd  ways; 

[94] 


A  •  GARDEN  •  IS  •  LOVE  S  •  HEART 


A  row  of  sunflowers  by  a  paling, 

A  wicket  left  upon  the  latch, 
A  summer-house  with  woodbine   trailing, 

And  ivy  creeping  o'er  the  thatch. 

A  footfall  on  the  garden  gravel, 

A  quick'ning  heart,  a  whisper'd  word; 

A  youth,  burnt  brown  with  foreign  travel, 
Come  back  to  claim  a  hope  deferred. 

O  happy,  happy  time  of  Love's  beginning, 

Ere  ever  we  can  guess  that  storms  are  near, 
Sunlight     dancing,     buds     unfolding,     thrushes 

singing, 

Golden  Summer  of  the  soul  and  of  the  year! 

VIOLET  FANE. 


One  Flower 

When  autumn  suns  are  soft,  and  sea  winds  moan, 
And  golden  fruits  make  sweet  the  golden  air, 
In  gardens  where  the  apple-blossoms  were, 

In  these  old  springs  before  I  walked  alone; 

I  pass  among  the  pathways  overgrown, 

[95] 


tT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

Of  all  the  former  flowers  that  kissed  your  feet 

Remains  a  poppy,  pallid  from  the  heat, 
A  wild  poppy  that  the  wild  winds  have  sown. 
Alas!  the  rose  forgets  your  hands  of  rose; 

The  lilies  slumber  in  the  lily  bed; 
'Tis  only  poppies  in  the  dreamy  close, 

The  changeless,  windless  garden  of  the  dead, 
You  tend,  with  buds  soft  as  your  kiss  that  lies 
In  ever  happy  dreams,  upon  mine  eyes. 

ANDREW  LANG. 
Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old  France. 


My  Heart  Shall  be  Thy  Garden 

My  heart  shall  be  thy  garden.     Come,  my  own, 
Into  thy  garden;  thine  be  happy  hours 
Among  my  fairest  thoughts,  my  tallest  flowers, 

From  root  to  crowning  petal,  thine  alone. 

Thine  is  the  place  from  where  the  seeds  are  sown 
Up  to  the  sky  enclosed,  with  all  its  showers. 
But  ah,  the  birds,  the  birds!    Who  shall  build 

bowers 

To  keep  these  thine?     O  friend,  the  birds  have 
flown. 

[96] 


WITHOUT  •  SUN  •  I  •  KEEP  •  SILENCE 

For  as  these  come  and  go,  and  quit  our  pine 
To  follow  the  sweet  season,  or,  new-comers, 
Sing  one  song  only  from  our  alder-trees. 

My  heart  has  thoughts,  which,  though  thine  eyes 

hold  mine, 

Flit  to  the  silent  world  and  other  summers, 
With  wings  that  dip  beyond  the  silver  seas. 
ALICE  MEYNELL. 


The  Garden  of  Shadow 

"  Love  heeds  no  more  the  sighing  of  the  wind 
Against  the  perfect  flowers:  thy  garden's  close 
Is  grown  a  wilderness,  where  none  shall  find 
One  strayed,  last  petal  of  one  last  year's  rose. 

"  O  bright,  bright  hair !    O  mouth  like  a  ripe 

fruit ! 

Can  famine  be  so  nigh  to  harvesting? 
Love,  that  was  songful,  with  a  broken  lute 
In  grass  of  graveyards  goeth  murmuring. 

[97] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


"  Let  the  wind  blow  against  the  perfect  flowers, 
And  all  thy  garden  change  and  glow  with  spring: 
Love  is  grown  blind  with  no  more  count  of  hours 
Nor  part  in  seed-time  nor  in  harvesting." 

ERNEST  DOWSON. 


In  your  mother's  apple-orchard, 

Just  a  year  ago,  last  spring: 
Do  you   remember,  Yvonne! 

The  dear  trees  lavishing 
Rain  of  their  starry  blossoms 

To  make  you  a  coronet? 
Do  you  remember,  Yvonne? 

As  I  remember  yet. 

In  your  mother's  apple-orchard, 

When  the  world  was  left  behind: 
You  were  so  shy,  so  shy,  Yvonne! 

But  your  eyes  were  calm  and  kind. 
We  spoke  of  the  apple  harvest, 

When  the  cider  press  is  set, 
And  such-like  trifles,  Yvonne! 

That  doubtless  you  forget. 

[98] 


TIME  •  WAS  •  MADE  •  FOR  •  SLAVES 

In  the  still  soft  Breton  twilight, 

We  were  silent;  words  were  few, 
Till  your  mother  came  out  chiding, 

For  the  grass  was  bright  with  dew 
But  I  know  your  heart  was  beating, 

Like  a  fluttered,  frightened  dove. 
Do  you  ever  remember,  Yvonne? 

That  first  faint  flush  of  love? 


In  the  fulness  of  midsummer, 

When  the  apple-bloom  was  shed, 
Oh,  brave  was  your  surrender, 

Though  shy  the  words  you  said. 
I  am  glad,  so  glad,  Yvonne! 

To  have  led  you  home  at  last; 
Do  you  ever  remember,  Yvonne! 

How  swiftly  the  days  passed? 


In  your  mother's  apple-orchard 

It  is  grown  too  dark  to  stray, 
There  is  none  to  chide  you,  Yvonne! 

You  are  over  far  away. 
There  is  dew  on  your  grave-grass,  Yvonne! 

But  your  feet  it  shall  not  wet: 

[99] 


HJ  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

No,  you  never  remember,  Yvonne ! 
And  I  shall  soon  forget. 

ERNEST  DOWSON. 
Yvonne  of  Britanny. 


Dost  thou  remember  how  one  morn  of  Spring 
A  bunch  of  yellow  roses  sweet  and  rare, 
Gathered   while   yet   the   garden   walks  were 
bare, 

Into  thy  presence  ...  I  did  bring?.    .  . 
Whispering,  "  Whatsoever  may  befall 

Within  love's  garden-lands  of  sun  and  showers, 
This  token  shall  remain  with  thee  through  all 

The  silence  of  thy  sad  and  lonely  hours! 

WILLIAM  AKERMAN. 


The  Parting  Hour 

Not  yet,  dear  love,  not  yet :  the  sun  is  high ; 

You  said  last  night,  "  At  sunset  I  will  go." 
Come  to  the  garden,  where  when  blossoms  die 

No  word  is  spoken ;  it  is  better  so : 
Ah!  bitter  word  "Farewell." 

[100] 


CHERISH  •  LOVES  •  TIME 


Hark!  how  the  birds  sing  sunny  songs  of  spring! 
Soon  they  will  build,   and  work  will  silence 

them; 

So  we  grow  less  light-hearted  as  years  bring 
Life's  grave  responsibilities  —  and  then 
The  bitter  word  "  Farewell." 

The  violets  fret  to  fragrance  'neath  your  feet, 
Heaven's    gold    sunlight    dreams   aslant    your 

hair: 

No  flower  for  me  !  your  mouth  is  far  more  sweet. 
O,  let  my  lips  forget,  while  lingering  there, 
Love's  bitter  word  "  Farewell." 

Sunset  already!  have  we  sat  so  long? 

The  parting  hour,  and  so  much  left  unsaid! 
The  garden  has  grown  silent  —  void  of  song, 
Our  sorrow  shakes  us  with  a  sudden  dread! 
Ah  !  bitter  word  "  Farewell." 

OLIVE  CUSTANCE. 


[101] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


The  Orange  Garden 

(Translation  from  the  Moorish  by  Walter  Harris  of  Tangier) 
I 

I  cannot  find  this  Orange  Garden  fair: 
The  dim  dishevelled  grass  is  wet  and  chill. 

Desolate,  croaking  frogs  distress  the  air, 

But  birds,  if  ever  birds  come  here,  are  still. 

Even  the  oranges  have  lost  their  light 

And  droop  forlorn  beneath  the  sombre  green. 

A  water-wheel  creaks  somewhere  out  of  sight, 
Grey  mist  and  shadow  veil  the  lonely  scene. 

And  when  I  think  I  hear  your  coming  feet 
Rustle  across  the  grass  and  violet  leaves, 

'Tis  but  the  gardener,  who  fears  to  meet, 

Among  the  gloom  some  fruit-attracted  thieves. 

II 

Fair,  ah,  fair,  is  the  Sunny  Orange  Garden, 
Secret  and  shady,  scented  and  green. 

Gold,  red  gold,  are  the  oranges  in  clusters, 
Fragrant  and  bright  in  their  ripened  sheen. 

[102] 


LOVE  •  ME  •  LITTLE  •  LOVE  •  ME  •  LONG 

Even  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  is  music, 
Even  the  creak  of  the  wheel  is  song, 

Straight  to  my  naked  heart  the  wild  birds'  warble 
Strikes  in  cadence,  tremulously  strong. 

Now  the  old  gardener  passes  discreetly, 

Never  upraising  his  guarded  eyes, 
For  here,  in  the  violets,  at  rest,  beside  me, 
Sweet  and  consenting,  my  Loved  One  lies! 
LAURENCE  HOPE. 
Stars  of  the  Desert. 


[103] 


SHINING  •  SPOT  •  FOR  -  EVER  •  SHINING 

BRIGHTEST  •  HOURS-  HAVE  •  NO  •  ABIDING. 

USE  •  THY  •  GOLDEN  •  MOMENTS  •  WELL. 

LIFE  •  IS  •  WASTING 

DEATH  •  IS  -  HASTING 

DEATH     CONSIGNS  •  TO  •  HEAVEN  •  OR  •  HELL. 


OFPOSTO  •  DI  •  ME — PENSI  •  DI  •  TE 


Whilom  ther  was  in  a  smal  village, 

As  myn  autor  make  the  rehersayle, 

A  chorle,  whiche  hadde  lust  and  a  grete  corage 

Within  hymself,  be  diligent  travayle 

To  array  his  gardeyn  with  notable  apparayle, 

Of  lengthe  and  brede  yelicke  square  and  longe, 

Hegged  and  dyked  to  make  it  sure  and  stronge. 

Alle  the  aleis  were  made  playne  with  sond, 
The  benches  turned  with  newe  turves  grene, 
Sote  herbers,  with  condite  at  the  honde, 
That  welled  up  agayne  the  sonne  schene, 
Lyke  silver  stremes  as  any  cristalle  clene 
The  burbly  waives  is  up  boyling, 
Round  as  byralle  ther  beamys  out  shynge. 

JOHN  LYDGATE. 
The  Chorl  and  the  Birde. 


To  the  gay  gardins  his  unstaid  desire 
Him  wholly  carried,  to  refresh  his  sprights: 
There  lavish  Nature,  in  her  best  attire, 
Powers  forth  sweete  odors  and  alluring  sights; 

[107] 


IN  •  PRAISE  -OF  •  GARDENS 


And  Arte,  with  her  contending,  doth  aspire 
T'  excell  the  naturall  with  made  delights; 
And  all,  that  faire  or  pleasant  may  be  found, 
In  riotous  excesse  doth  there  abound. 


And  then  againe  he  turneth  to  his  play, 
To  spoyle  the  pleasures  of  that  Paradise; 
The  wholesome  Saulge,  and  Lavender  still  gray, 
Ranke-smelling  Rue,  and  Cummin  good  for  eyes, 
The  Roses  varying  in  the  pride  of  May, 
Sharpe  Isope,  good  for  greene  wounds  remedies, 
Faire  Marigoldes,  and  Bees-alluring  thime, 
Sweet  Marjoram,  and  Daysies  decking  prime: 


Coole  Violets,  and  Orpine  growing  still, 
Embathed  Balme,  and  cheerfull  Gallingale, 
Fresh  Costmarie,  and  breathfull  Camomil, 
Dull  Poppie,  and  drink-quickning  Setuale, 
Veyne-healing  Verven,  and  hed-purging  Dill, 
Sound  Savorie,  and  Bazil  heartie-hale, 
Fat  Colworts,  and  comforting  Perseline, 
Colde  Lettuce,  and  refreshing  Rosemarine. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 
Muiopotmos:  or  The  Fate  of  the  Butterflie. 

[108] 


VIRTUE  -JOIN  •  PRECIOUS'-  TIME 


A  Wish 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  He 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honour  I  would  have, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone. 
The  unknown  are  better,  than  ill  known; 

Rumour  can  ope  the  grave. 
Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice  of  friends. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light, 
And  sleep,  as  undisturb'd  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace,  and  should  fitting  be, 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With   nature's   hand,    not   art's;   and    pleasures 

yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space, 
For  he  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 
And  in  this  true  delight, 

[109] 


"CT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
I  would  not  fear  nor  wish  my  fate, 

But  boldly  say  each  night, 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or,  in  clouds  hide  them ;  I  have  liv'd  to-day. 

A.  COWLEY. 


The  Mower  Against  Gardens 

Luxurious  man,  to  bring  his  vice  in  use, 

Did  after  him  the  word  seduce, 
And  from  the  fields  the  flowers  and  plants  allure, 

Where  Nature  was  most  plain  and  pure. 
He  first  inclosed  within  the  gardens  square 

A  dead  and  standing  pool  of  air, 
And  a  more  luscious  earth  for  them  did  knead, 

Which  stupefied  them  while  it  fed. 
The  pink  grew  then  as  double  as  his  mind ; 

The  nutriment  did  change  the  kind. 
With  strange  perfumes  he  did  the  roses  taint; 

And  flowers  themselves  were  taught  to  paint. 
The  tulip  white  did  for  complexion  seek, 

And  learned  to  interline  its  cheek; 
Its  onion  root  they  then  so  high  did  hold, 

That  one  was  for  a  meadow  sold: 

[no] 


tT  QUID  •  CELERIUS  •  TEMPORE  ?  tT 

Another  world  was  searched  through  oceans  new. 

To  find  the  marvel  of  Peru; 
And  yet  these  rarities  might  be  allowed 

To  man,  that  sovereign  thing  and  proud, 
Had  he  not  dealt  between  the  bark  and  tree, 

Forbidden  mixtures  there  to  see. 
No  plant  now  knew  the  stock  from  which   it 
came; 

He  grafts  upon  the  wild  the  tame, 
That  the  uncertain  and  adulterate  fruit 

Might  put  the  palate  in  dispute. 
His  green  seraglio  has  its  eunuchs  too, 

Lest  any  tyrant  him  outdo; 
And  in  the  cherry  he  does  Nature  vex, 

To  procreate  without  a  sex. 
'Tis  all  enforced,  the  fountain  and  the  grot, 

While  the  sweet  fields  do  lie  forgot, 
Where  willing  Nature  does  to  all  dispense 

A  wild  and  fragrant  innocence; 
And  fauns  and  fairies  do  the  meadows  till 

More  by  their  presence  than  their  skill. 
Their  statues  polished  by  some  ancient  hand, 

May  to  adorn  the  gardens  stand; 
But,  howsoe'er  the  figures  do  excel, 

The  Gods  themselves  with  us  do  dwell. 

A.  MARVELL. 

[in] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


A  Garden  of  Flowers 

Fairhanded  Spring  unbosoms  every  grace, 

Throws  out  the  Snowdrop  and  the  Crocus  first, 

The  Daisy,  Primrose,  Violet  darkly  blue, 

And  Polyanthus  of  unnumbered  dyes; 

The  yellow  Wallflower,  stained  with  iron  brown, 

And  lavish  Stock  that  scents  the  garden  round, 

From  the  soft  wing  of  vernal  breezes  shed 

Anemones,  Auriculas,  enriched 

With  shining  meal  o'er  all  their  velvet  leaves, 

And  full  Ranunculus  of  glowing  red. 

Then  comes  the  Tulip  race,  whose  beauty  plays 

Her  idle  freaks,  from  family  diffused 

To  family,  as  flies  the  father  dust, 

The  varied  colours  run ;  and  while  they  break 

On  the  charmed  eye,  the  exulting  florist  marks, 

With  secret  pride,  the  wonders  of  his  hand. 

No  gradual  bloom  is  wanting,  from  the  bud, 

First  born  of  Spring,  to  Summer's  musky  tribes — 

Nor  Hyacinths  of  purest  virgin  white, 

Low  bent  and  blushing  inwards — nor  Jonquils 

Of  potent  fragrance — nor  Narcissus  fair, 

As  o'er  the  fabled  mountain  hanging  still — 

[112] 


U  YE  •  KNOW  •  NOT  •  THE  •  HOUR  U 

Nor  broad  Carnations,  nor  gay  spotted  Pinks, 
Nor  showered   from   every  bush   the   damasked 
Rose. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 

The  Seasons 


The  Garden 

Oh,  blest  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world, 
Which  he,  thus  occupied  enjoys!     Retreat 
Cannot  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past, 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil,  proving  still 
A  faithful  barrier,  not  o'erleaped  with  ease 
By  vicious  Custom,  raging  uncontrolled 
Abroad,  and  desolating  public  life. 

Had  I  the  choice  of  sublunary  good, 

What  could  I  wish,  that  I  possess  not  here? 

Health,  leisure,  means  to  improve  it,  friendship, 

peace, 

No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wondering  Muse, 
And  constant  occupation  without  care. 

[H3] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Thus  blest,  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss; 
Hopeless  indeed  that  dissipated  minds, 
And  profligate  abusers  of  a  world 
Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them, 
Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys  that  I  describe, 
Allured  by  my  report:  but  sure  no  less, 
That  self-condemned  they  must  neglect  the  prize, 
And  what  they  will  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 


What  we  admire  we  praise,  and  when  we  praise, 
Advance  it  into  notice,  that  its  worth 
Acknowledged,  others  may  admire  it  too. 
I  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk 
Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still, 
The  cause  of  grief,  and  sacred  truth 
And  virtue,  and  those  scenes  which  God  ordained 
Should  best  secure  them,  and  promote  them  most ; 
Scenes  that  I  love,  and  with  regret  perceive 
Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoyed. 
Pure  is  the  nymph,  though  liberal  of  her  smiles, 
And  chaste,  though  unconfined,  whom  I  extol. 
Not  as  the  prince  in  Shushan,  when  he  called, 
Vainglorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vashti  forth, 
To  grace  the  full  pavillion.     His  design 
Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good, 


tT  EVERY  •  DAY  •  HAS  •  ITS  •  BOUNDS          U 

Which  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake. 
My  charmer  is  not  mine  alone ;  my  sweets, 
And  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too, 
Nature,  enchanting  Nature,  in  whose  form 
And  lineaments  divine  I  trace  a  hand 
That  errs  not,  and  find  raptures  still  renewed, 
Is  free  to  all  men — universal  prize. 
Strange  that  so  fair  a  creature  should  yet  want 
Admirers,  and  be  destined  to  divide 
With  meaner  objects  even  the  few  she  finds! 
WILLIAM  COWPER. 
The  Task,  Book  III. 


The  Garden 

Fain  would  my  Muse  the  flow'ry  Treasures  sing, 
And  humble  glories  of  the  youthful  Spring; 
Where  opening  Roses  breathing  sweets  diffuse, 
And  soft  Carnations  show'r  their  balmy  dews; 
Where  Lilies  smile  in  virgin  robes  of  white, 
The  thin  Undress  of  superficial  Light, 
And  vary'd  Tulips  show  so  dazzling  gay, 
Blushing  in  bright  diversities  of  day. 
Each  painted  flow'ret  in  the  lake  below 

[US] 


tT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

Surveys  its  beauties,  whence  its  beauties  grow; 
And  pale  Narcissus  on  the  bank,  in  vain 
Transformed,  gazes  on  himself  again. 
Here  aged  trees  Cathedral  Walks  compose, 
And  mount  the  Hill  in  venerable  rows: 
There  the  green  Infants  in  their  beds  are  laid, 
The  Garden's  Hope,  and  its  expected  shade. 
Here   Orange-trees   with    blooms  and   pendants 

shine, 

And  vernal  honours  in  their  autumn  join; 
Exceed  their  promise  in  the  ripen'd  store, 
Yet  in  the  rising  blossom  promise  more. 
There  in  bright  drops  the  crystal  Fountains  play, 
By  Laurels  shielded  from  the  piercing  day; 
Where  Daphne,  now  a  tree  as  once  a  maid, 
Still  from  Apollo  vindicates  her  shade, 
Still  turns  her  Beauties  from  th'  invading  beam, 
Nor  seeks  in  vain  for  succour  to  the  Stream. 
The  stream  at  once  preserves  her  virgin  leaves, 
At  once  a  shelter  from  her  boughs  receives, 
Where  Summer's  Beauty  midst  of  Winter  stays, 
And  Winter's  Coolness  spite  of  Summer's  rays. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


[116] 


LOOK  •  INTO  •  THYSELF 


A  Farewell 

Farewell,  thou  little  Nook  of  mountain-ground, 

Thou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 

Of  that  magnificent  temple  which  doth  bound 

One  side  of  our  whole  vale  with  grandeur  rare; 

Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 

The  loveliest  spot  that  man  hath  ever  found, 

Farewell! — we  leave  thee  to  Heaven's  peaceful 

care, 
Thee,  and  the  Cottage  which  thou  dost  surround. 

Our  boat  is  safely  anchored  by  the  shore, 
And  there  will  safely  ride  when  we  are  gone ; 
The  flowering  shrubs  that  deck  our  humble  door 
Will  prosper,  though  untended  and  alone: 
Fields,  goods,  and  far-off  chattels  we  have  none : 
These  narrow  bounds  contain  our  private  store 
Of  things  earth  makes,  and  sun  doth  shine  upon ; 
Here  are  they  in  our  sight — we  have  no  more. 

Dear  Spot!  which  we  have  watched  with  tender 

heed, 

Bringing  thee  chosen  plants  and  blossoms  blown 
Among  the  distant  mountains,  flower  and  weed, 

[H7] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Which  thou  hast  taken  to  thee  as  thy  own, 
Making  all  kindness  registered  and  known; 
Thou  for  our  sakes,  though  Nature's  child  in- 

deed, 

Fair  in  thyself  and  beautiful  alone, 
Hast  taken  gifts  which  thou  dost  little  need. 

And  O  most  constant,  yet  most  fickle  place, 
Thou   hast  thy  wayward  moods,   as  thou   dost 

show 

To  them  who  look  not  daily  on  thy  face; 
Who,  being  loved,  in  love  no  bounds  dost  know, 
And  say'st,  when  we  forsake  thee,  "  Let  them 

go!" 

Thou  easy-hearted  Thing,  with  thy  wild  race 
Of  weeds  and  flowers,  till  we  return  be  slow, 
And  travel  with  the  year  at  a  soft  pace. 

O  happy  Garden!  whose  seclusion  deep 
Hath  been  -so  friendly  to  industrious  hours; 
And  to  soft  slumbers,  that  did  gently  steep 
Our  spirits,  carrying  with  them  dreams  of  flowers, 
And  wild  notes  warbled  among  leafy  bowers; 
Two  burning  months  let  summer  overleap, 
And,  coming  back  with  Her  who  will  be  ours, 
Into  thy  bosom  we  again  shall  creep. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

[118] 


LET  •  NOTHING  •  BE  •  LOST 


November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear: 
Late,  gazing  down  the  sleepy  linn, 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen, 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken, 
So  thick  the  tangled  greenwood  grew, 
So  feeble  trilled  the  streamlet  through: 
Now,  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade, 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade, 
And,  foaming  brown  with  doubled  speed, 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Marmion,  Introduction. 


Across  my  garden!  and  the  thicket  stirs, 
The  fountain  pulses  high  in  sunnier  jets, 

The  blackcap  warbles,  and  the  turtle  purrs, 
The  starling  claps  his  tiny  castanets. 

Still  round   her  forehead  wheels  the  woodland 

dove, 
And  scatters  on  her  throat  the  sparks  of  dew, 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


The  kingcup  fills  her  footprint,  and  above 

Broaden  the  glowing  isles  of  vernal  blue. 
Hail  ample  presence  of  a  Queen, 

Bountiful,  beautiful,  apparell'd  gay, 
Whose  mantle  every  shade  of  glancing  green, 
Flies  back  in  fragrant  breezes  to  display 
A  tunic  white  as  May! 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
The  Progress  of  Spring. 


Hector  in  the  Garden  " 

In  the  garden  lay  supinely 

A  huge  giant  wrought  of  spade! 

Arms  and  legs  were  stretched  at  length 

In  a  passive  giant's  strength, — 

The  fine  meadow  turf,  cut  finely, 
Round  them  laid  and  interlaid. 

Call  him  Hector,  son  of  Priam! 
Such  his  title  and  degree, 
With  my  rake  I  smoothed  his  brow, 
Both  his  cheeks  I  weeded  through, 

[120] 


tf  I  •  WARN  •  AS  •  I  •  MOVE  t 

But  a  rhymer  such  as  I  am, 
Scarce  can  sing  his  dignity. 

Eyes  of  gentianellas  azure, 
Staring,  winking  at  the  skies: 
Nose  of  gillyflowers  and  box; 
Scented  grasses  put  for  locks, 

Which  a  little  breeze  at  pleasure 
Set  a-waving  round  his  eyes: 

Brazen  helm  of  daffodillies, 

With  a  glitter  toward  the  light; 
Purple  violets  for  the  mouth, 
Breathing  perfumes  west  and  south; 

And  a  sword  of  flashing  lilies, 
Holden  ready  for  the  fight: 

And  a  breastplate  made  of  daisies, 

Closely  fitting,  leaf  on  leaf; 

Periwinkles  interlaced 

Drawn  for  belt  about  the  waist; 
While  the  brown  bees,  humming  praises, 

Shot  their  arrows  round  the  chief. 

Oh,  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  ruddy 
And  white  blossoms  sleek  with  rain! 

[121] 


t?  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OP  •  GARDENS 

Oh,  my  garden  rich  with  pansies! 
Oh,  my  childhood's  bright  romances! 
All  revive,  like  Hector's  body, 
And  I  see  them  stir  again. 

And  despite  life's  changes,  chances, 
And  despite  the  deathbell's  toll. 
They  press  on  me  in  full  seeming 
Help,  some  angel!  stay  this  dreaming! 

As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
Sing  God's  patience  through  my  soul. 
E.  B.  BROWNING. 


Early  Influence  of  Gardens  Remains 
Always 

'Tis  sweet  to  love  in  childhood,  when  the  souls 

that  we  bequeath 
Are  beautiful   in   freshness   as   the   coronals  we 

wreathe ; 
When  we  feed  the  gentle  robin,  and  caress  the 

leaping  hound, 
And  linger  latest  on  the  spot  where  buttercups 

are  found : 

[122] 


LIVE  •  WHILE  •  YOU  •  LIVE 


When  we  seek  the  bee  and  ladybird  with  laugh- 

ter, shout,  and  song, 
And  think  the  day  for  wooing  them  can  never 

be  too  long. 
O  !  'tis  sweet  to  love  in  childhood,  and  tho'  stirred 

by  meanest  things, 
The  music  that  the  heart  yields  then  will  never 

leave  its  strings. 


'Tis  sweet  to  love  in  after  years  the  dear  one  by 

our  side; 
To  dote  with  all  the  mingled  joys  of  passion, 

hope,  and  pride; 
To  think  the  chain  around  our  breast  will  hold 

still  warm  and  fast; 
And  grieve  to  know  that  death  must  come  to 

break  the  link  at  last. 
But  when  the  rainbow  span  of  bliss  is  waning, 

hue  by  hue; 
When  eyes  forget  their  kindly  beams,  and  lips 

become  less  true; 
When    stricken    hearts   are    pining    on    through 

many  a  lonely  hour, 
Who  would  not  sigh  "  'tis  safer  far  to  love  the 

bird   and  flower?  " 

[123] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


'Tis  sweet  to  love  in  ripen'd  age  the  trumpet 

blast  of  Fame, 
To  pant  to  live  on  glory's  scroll,  though  blood 

may  trace  the  name; 
'Tis  sweet  to  love  the  heap  of  gold,  and  hug  it 

to  our  breast;  — 
To  trust  it  as  the  guiding  star  and  anchor  of 

our  rest. 
But    such    devotion    will    not    serve  —  however 

strong  the  zeal  — 
To   overthrow   the   altar   where   our   childhood 

loved  to  kneel, 
Some  bitter   moment   shall   o'ercast   the  sun   of 

wealth  and  power, 
And   then   proud   man   would    fain   go   back   to 

worship  bird  and  flower. 

ELIZA  COOK. 

Ille  Terrarum 

Frae  nirly,  nippin',  Eas'lan'  breeze, 
Frae  Nor'lan'  snow,  an'  haar  o'  seas, 
Weel  happit  in  your  gairden  trees, 

A  bonny  bit, 
Atween  the  muckle  Pentland's  knees, 

Secure  ye  sit. 

[124] 


LEAD  •  KINDLY  •  LIGHT 


Beeches  an'  aiks  entwine  their  theek, 
An'  firs,  a  stench,  auld-farrant  clique. 
A'  simmer  day,  your  chimleys  reek, 

Couthy  and  bien; 
An'  here  an'  there  your  windies  keek 

Amang  the  green. 

A  pickle  plats  an'  paths  an'  posies, 
A  wheen  auld  gillyflowers  an'  roses: 
A  ring  o'  wa's  the  hale  encloses 

Frae  sheep  or  men; 
An'  there  the  auld  housie  beeks  an'  doses, 

A'  by  her  lane. 

The  gairdner  crooks  his  weary  back 

A'  day  in  the  pitaity-track, 

Or  mebbe  stops  awhile  to  crack 

Wi'  Jane  the  cook, 
Or  at  some  buss,  worm-eaten-black, 

To  gie  a  look. 

Frae  the  high  hills  the  curlow  ca's; 
The  sheep  gang  baaing  by  the  wa's; 
Or  whiles  a  clan  o'  roosty  craws 

Cangle  thegether  ; 
The  wild  bees  seek  the  gairden  raws, 

Wearit  ai'  heather. 

[125] 


tT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

Or  in  the  gloamin'  douce  an'  grey 
The  sweet-throat  mavis  tunes  her  lay, 
The  herd  comes  linkin'  doun  the  brae; 

An'  by  degrees 
The  muckle  sitter  miine  maks  way 

Amang  the  trees. 

Here  aft  hae  I,  wi'  sober  heart, 
For  meditation  sat  apairt, 
When  orra  loves  or  kittle  art 

Perplexed  my  mind; 
Here  socht  a  balm  for  ilka  smart 

O'  human  kind. 

Here  aft,  weel  neukit  by  my  lane, 
Wi'  Horace,  or  perhaps  Montaigne, 
The  mornin'  hours  hae  come  an'  gane 

Abiine  my  head — 
I  wad  nae  gien  a  chucky-stane 

For  a'    I'd  read. 

But  noo  the  auld  city,  street  by  street, 
An'  winter  fu'  o'  snaw  an'  sleet, 
Awhile  shut  in  my  gangrel  feet 

An'  goavin'  mettle; 
Noo  is  the  soopit  ingle  sweet, 

An'  liltin'  kettle. 

[126] 


WITH  •  GOD'S  •  FAVOR 


An'  noo  the  winter  winds  complain; 
Cauld  lies  the  glacer  in  ilka  lane; 
On  draigled  hizzie,  tautit  wean 

An'  drucken  lads, 
In  the  mirk  nicht,  the  winter  rain 

Dribbles  and  blads. 

Whan  bugles  frae  the  Castle  rock 
An'  beaten  drum  wi'  dowie  shock, 
Wauken,  at  cauld-rife  sax  o'clock, 

My  chitterin'  frame, 
I  mind  me  on  the  kintry  cock, 

The  kintry  hame. 

I  mind  me  on  yon  bonny  bield; 
An'  Fancy  traivels  far  afield 
To  gaither  a'  that  gairdens  yield 

O*  sun  an'  Simmer: 
To  hearten  up  a  dowie  chield, 
Fancy's  the  limmer! 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

Underwoods. 


[127] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


To  a  Garden 

Friend,  in  thy  mountain-side  demesne, 
My  plain-beholding,  rosy,  green 
And  linnet-haunted  garden  ground, 
Let  still  the  esculents  abound. 
Let  first  the  onion  flourish  there, 
Rose  among  roots,  the  maiden-fair, 
Wine  scented  and  poetic  soul 
Of  the  capacious  salad  bowl. 
Let  thyme  (The  mountaineer  to  dress 
The  tinier  birds)  and  wading  cress, 
The  lover  of  the  shallow  brook, 
From  all  my  plots  and  borders  look. 
Nor  crisp  and  ruddy  radish,  nor 
Pease-cods  for  the  child's  pinafore 
Be  lacking;  nor  of  salad  clan 
The  last  and  least  that  ever  ran 
About  great  nature's  garden  beds. 
Nor  thence  be  missed  the  speary  heads 
Of  artichoke;  nor  thence  the  bean 
That  gathered  innocent  and  green 
Outsavours  the  belauded  pea. 

These  tend,  I  prithee ;  and  for  me, 
Thy  most  long-suffering  master,  bring 

[128] 


I  •  SHINE  •  OR  •  SHROUD 


In  April,  when  the  linnets  sing 

And  the  days  lengthen  more  and  more, 

At  sundown  to  the  garden  door. 

And  I,  being  provided  thus, 

Shall,  with  superb  asparagus, 

A  book,  a  taper,  and  a  cup 

Of  country  wine,  divinely  sup. 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

Underwoods. 


The  Sun's  Travels " 

The  sun  is  not  a-bed,  when  I 

At  night  upon  my  pillow  lie; 

Still  round  the  earth  his  way  he  takes, 

And  morning  after  morning  makes. 

While  here  at  home,  in  shining  day, 
We  round  the  sunny  garden  play, 
Each  little  Indian  sleepy-head 
Is  being  kissed  and  put  to  bed. 

And  when  at  eve  I   rise  from  tea, 
Day  dawns  beyond  the  Atlantic  Sea; 

[129] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


And  all  the  children  of  the  West 
Are  getting  up  and  being  dressed. 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 
A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses. 


As  from  the  house  your  mother  sees 
You  playing  round  the   garden  trees, 
So  you  may  see,  if  you  will  look 
Through  the  windows  of  this  book, 
Another  child,  far,  far  away, 
And  in  another  garden,  play. 
But  do  not  think  you  can  at  all, 
By  knocking  on  the  window,  call 
That  child  to  hear  you.     He  intent 
Is  all  on  his  play-business  bent. 
He  does  not  hear;  he  will  not  look, 
Nor  yet  be  lured  out  of  this  book. 
For,  long  ago,  the  truth  to  say, 
He  has  grown  up  and  gone  away, 
And  it  is  but  a  child  of  air 
That  lingers  in  the  garden  there. 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 
A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses. 

[130] 


NOW  •  OR  •  NEVER 


"  Night  and  Day  " 

When  the  golden  day  is  done, 
Through  the  closing  portal, 

Child  and  garden,  flower  and  sun, 
Vanish  all  things  mortal. 

As  the  blinding  shadows  fall 

As  the  rays  diminish, 
Under  evening's  cloak,  they  all 

Roll  away  and  vanish. 

Garden  darkened,  daisy  shut, 
Child  in  bed,  they  slumber — 

Glow-worm  in  the  highway  rut, 
Mice  among  the  lumber. 

In  the  darkness  houses  shine, 
Parents  move  with  candles; 

Till  on  all,  the  night  divine 
Turns  the  bedroom  handles. 

Till  at  last  the  day  begins 

In  the  east  a-breaking, 
In  the  hedges  and  the  whins 

Sleeping  birds  awaking. 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


In  the  darkness  shapes  of  things, 
Houses,  trees,  and  hedges, 

Clearer  grow  ;  and  sparrow's  wings 
Beat  on  window  ledges. 

These  shall  wrake  the  yawning  made; 

She  the  door  shall  open  — 
Finding  dew  on  garden  glade 

And  the  morning  broken. 

There  my  garden  grows  again 

Green  and  rosy  painted, 
As  at  eve  behind  the  pane 

From  my  eyes  it  fainted. 

Just  as  it  was  shut  away, 

Toylike,  in  the  even, 
Here  I  see  it  glow  with  day 

Under  glowing  heaven. 

Every  path  and  every  plot, 

Every  bush  of  roses, 
Every  blue  forget-me-not, 

Where  the  dew  reposes. 

[132] 


WITHOUT  •  SUN  •  I  •  KEEP  •  SILENCE 

"  Up !  "  they  cry,  "  the  day  is  come 

On  the  smiling  valleys: 
We  have  beat  the  morning  drum ; 
Playmate,  join  your  allies !  " 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 
A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses. 


My  pleasaunce  was  an  undulating  green, 
Stately  with  trees  whose  shadows  slept  below, 

With   glimpses   of  smooth   garden-beds  between 
Like  flame  or  sky  or  snow. 


Woodpigeons    cooed    there,    stock-doves    nestled 

there ; 
My  trees  were  full  of  songs  and  flowers  and 

fruit ; 

Their  branches  spread  a  city  in  the  air 
And  mice  lodged  in  their  root. 

CHRISTINA  E.  ROSSETTI. 

From  House  to  Home. 


[133] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


The  Garden  in  September* 

Now  thin  mists  temper  the  slow  ripening  beams 
Of  the  September  sun:  his  golden  gleams 
On  gaudy  flowers  shine,  that  prank  the  rows 
Of  high-grown  hollyhocks,  and  all  tall  shows 
That  Autumn  flaunteth  in  his  bushy  bowers; 
Where  tomtits  hanging  from  the  drooping  heads 
Of  giant  sunflowers,  peck  the  nutty  seeds; 
And  in  the  feathery  aster  bees  on  wing 
Seize  and  set  free  the  honied  flowers, 
Till  thousand  stars  leap  with  their  visiting: 
While  over  across  the  path  mazily  flit, 
Unpiloted  in  the  sun, 
The  dreamy  butterflies 

With  dazzling  colors  pondered  and  soft  glooms, 
White,  black  and  crimson  stripes,  and  peacock 

eyes, 

Or  on  chance  flowers  sit, 
With  idle  effort  plundering  one  by  one 
The  nectaries  of  deepest-throated  blooms. 

With  gentle  flaws  the  western  breeze 
Into  the  garden  saileth, 

*  Copyright,  1893,  The  Macmillan  Co. 
[134] 


tT  THOUGH  •  SILENT  •  I  •  SPEAK  tT 

Scarce  here  and  there  stirring  the  single  trees, 

For  his  sharpness  he  waileth: 

So  long  a  comrade  of  the  bearded  corn, 

Now  from  the  stubbles  whence  the  shocks  are 

borne, 

O'er  dewy  lawns  he  turns  to  stray, 
As  mindful  of  the  kisses  and  soft  play 
Wherewith  he  enamored   the  light-headed  way, 
Ere  he  deserted  her; 

Lover  of  fragrance,  and  too  late  repents; 
No  more  of  heavy  hyacinth  now  may  drink, 
No  spicy  pink, 

Nor  summer's  rose,  nor  garnered  lavender, 
But  the  few  lingering  scents 
Of  streaked  pea,  and  gillyflower,  and  stocks 
Of  courtly  purple,  and  aromatic  phlox. 


And  at  all  times  to  hear  the  drowsy  tones 

Of  dizzy  flies,  and  humming  drones, 

With  sudden  flap  of  pigeon  wings  in  the  sky, 

Or  the  wild  cry 

Of  thirsty  rooks,  that  scour  ascare 

The  distant  blue,  to  watering  as  they  fare 

With  creaking  pinions,  or — on  business  bent, 

If  aught  their  ancient  politics  displease, — 

[135] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Wheel  round  their  nested  colony,  and  there 
Settling  in  ragged  parliament, 
Some  stormy  council  hold  in  the  high  trees. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


The  pinks  along  my  garden  walks 
Have  all  shot  forth  their  summer  stalks, 
Thronging  their  buds  'mong  tulips  hot, 
And  blue  forget-me-not. 

Their  dazzling  snows  forth-bursting  soon 
Will  lade  the  idle  breath  of  June: 
And  waken  thro'  the  fragrant  night 
To  steal  the  pale  moonlight. 

The  nightingale  at  end  of  May 
Lingers  each  year  for  their  display; 
Till  when  he  sees  their  blossoms  blown, 
He  knows  the  spring  is  flown. 

June's  birth  they  greet,  and  when  their  bloom 
Dislustres,  withering  as  his  tomb, 
Then  summer  hath  a  shortening  day; 
And  steps  slow  to  decay. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 

[136] 


THE  •  DAY  •  IS  •  THINE 


Autumn  Tints 

Coral-colored  yew-berries 

Strew  the  garden  ways, 
Hollyhocks  and  sunflowers 

Make  a  dazzling  blaze 

In  these  latter  days. 

Marigolds  by  cottage  doors 
Flaunt  their  golden  pride, 

Crimson-punctured  bramble  leaves 
Dapple  far  and  wide 
The  green  mountain  side. 

For  the  year  that's  on  the  wane, 

Gathering  all  its  fire, 
Flares  up  through  the  kindling  world 
As,  ere  they  expire 
Flames  leap  high  and  higher. 

MATHILDE  BLIND. 


The  garden  walks  are  wet  with  dew 
Fresh  gather'd  from  the  rosy  hours, 

The  busy  insects  hum  anew, 

And  stir  to  life  the  sleeping  flow'rs; 

[137] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


While,  gaily  from  the  green  o'erhead, 

Upon  a  spray  of  tender  thorn 
That  blushes  into  white  and  red, 

A  glad  thrush  sings  and  makes  the  morn! 
WILLIAM  ACKERMAN. 


The  little  window  looks  upon  the  East, 
And  far  beneath  the  scented  garden  ground 
Exhales  its  fragrance;  it  is  wafted  up — 
The  white  magnolia  sends  a  cloud  of  scent 
Which  oft  in  certain  quarters  of  the  wind 
Pours  tide-like  through  the  casement.   You  detect 
The  faint  sweet  perfume  of  white  rose  and  red. 
The  lily  languishes  and  droops  and  dies, 
But  cannot  reach  it.     Yet  the  maiden  knows 
Its  virgin  bloom  is  ever  pouring  out 
Delicious  life  in  aspiration  there, 
And  it  stands  first  of  all  her  garden  queens 
In  her  pure  love  and  vivifying  care. 

DORA  STUART-MONTEITH. 

Avalon. 


[138] 


REDEEM  •  YE  •  TIME 


House  Fantastic 

Stood  the  house  where  I  was  born 

In  a  garden  grown  of  old, 
Where  the  heavy-scented  flowers 
Lay  in  wait  to  trap  the  hours, 
Snare  the  days  in  books  and  bowers 
And  the  moons  in  mazes  fold. 

ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE. 

A  Book  of  Mystery  and  Vision. 

In  Springtime 

My  garden  blazes  brightly  with   the   rose-bush 

and  the  peach, 
And   the  koil  sings  above  it,   in   the  siris  by 

the  well; 

From  the  creeper-covered  trellis  comes  the  squir- 
rel's chattering  speech, 

And  the  blue-jay  screams  and  flutters  where 
the  cherry  sat-bhai  dwell. 

But  the  rose  has  lost  its  fragrance,  and  the  koil's 

note  is  strange; 

I  am  sick  of  endless  sunshine,  sick  of  blossom- 
burdened  bough. 

[139] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Give  me  back  the  leafless  woodlands  where  the 

winds  of  Springtime  range  — 
Give  me  back  one  day  in   England  —  for  it's 
Spring  in  England  now! 

Through  the  pines  the  gusts  are  blooming,  o'er 

the  brown  fields  blowing  chill; 
From  the  furrow  of  the  ploughshare  streams 

the  fragrance  of  the  loam; 
And   the  hawk  nests  on  the  cliff-side   and   the 

jackdaw  in  the  hill  — 

And  my  heart  is  back  in   England   'mid  the 
sight  and  sounds  of  Home. 

But  the  garland  of  the  sacrifice  this  wealth  of 

rose  and  peach  is; 

Ah  !  koil,  little  koil,  singing  on  the  siris  bough. 
In  my  ears  the  knell  of  exile  your  ceaseless  bell- 

like  speech  is  — 

Can  you   tell   me   aught   of   England,   or  of 
Spring  in  England  now? 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 
Departmental  Ditties. 


[140] 


LEARN  •  HOW  •  TO  •  LIVE 


Along  the  lawns  the  tulip-lamps  are  lit, 

Amber,  and  amaranth,  and  ivory, 
Porphyry,  silver  and  chalcedony  — 

Filled  with  the  sunlight  and  the  joy  of  it. 

The  tulip  lamps  are  lit  —  the  Spring's  own  gold 
Glows  burning  bright  in  each  illumined  cup, 

Wrought  in  those  secret  mines  of  dusky  mould 
Where  Winter's  hidden  hoard  was  garnered 
up. 

The  flame  will  fade,  the  goblets  break  and  fall, 
Strewing  the  dim  earth  with  their  beauty's 

wrack  ; 
All  will  be  spent  and  past  their  festival 

Ere  the  first  vagrant  swallow  shall  come  back. 
ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT  WATSON. 

"  In  the  Heart  of  a  Garden." 


Vestured  and  veiled  with  twilight, 
Lulled  in  the  winter's  ease, 

Dim,  and  happy,  and  silent, 

My  garden  dreams  by  its  trees. 

[141] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Urn  of  the  sprayless  fountain, 

Glimmering  nymph  and  faun, 
Gleam  through   the  dark-plumed  cedar, 

Fade  on  the  dusky  lawn. 

Here  is  no  stir  of  summer, 

Here  is  no  pulse  of  spring; 
Never  a  bud  to  burgeon, 

Never  a  bird  to  sing. 

Dreams  —  and  the  kingdom  of  quiet! 

Only  the  dead  leaves  lie 
Over  the  fallen  roses 

Under  the  shrouded  sky. 

Folded  and  fenced  with  silence, 

Mindless  of  mail  and  mart, 
It  is  twilight  here  in  my  garden, 
And  twilight  here  in  my  heart. 
ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT  WATSON. 

"  In  the  Heart  of  a  Garden." 


So  while  with  frost  my  garden  lies, 
So  still,  so  bright,  my  garden  is, 

For  sure  the  fields  of  Paradise 
Show  not  more  fair  than  this: 

[142] 


U  THINK  •  HOW  •  TO  •  DIE  ET 

The  streets  of  pearl,  the  gates  of  gold, 

Are  they,  indeed,  more  peace-possessed 
Than  this  white  pleasaunce,  pure  and  cold, 
Against  an  amber  West? 

ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT  WATSON. 

"  In  the  Heart  of  a  Garden." 


An  Autumn  Garden 

My  tent  stands  in  a  garden 
Of  aster  and  golden-rod, 
Tilled  by  the  rain  and  the  sunshine, 
And  sown  by  the  hand  of  God, — 
And  old  New  England  pasture 
Abandoned  to  peace  and  time, 
And  by  the  magic  of  beauty 
Reclaimed  to  the  sublime. 

About   it   are   golden   woodlands 

Of  tulip  and  hickory; 

On  the  open  ridge  behind  it 

You  many  mount  to  a  glimpse  of  sea,- 

The  far-off,  blue,  Homeric 

Rim  of  the  world's  great  shield, 

[143] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


A  border  of  boundless  glamour 
For  the  soul's  familiar  field. 

In  purple  and  gray-wrought  lichen 
The  boulders  lie  in  the  sun; 
Along  its  grassy  footpath, 
The  white-tailed  rabbits  run. 
The  crickets  work  and  chirrup 
Through  the  still  afternoon; 
And  the  owl  calls  at  twilight 
Under  the  frosty  moon. 

The  odorous  wild  grape  clambers 

Over  the  tumbling  wall, 

And  through  the  autumnal  quiet 

The  chestnuts  open  and  fall. 

Sharing  time's  freshness  and  fragrance, 

Part  of  the  earth's  great  soul, 

Here  man's  spirit  may  ripen 

To  wisdom  serene  and  whole. 

Shall  we  not  grow  with  the  asters?  — 
Never  reluctant  nor  sad, 
Not  counting  the  cost  of  being, 
Living  to  dare  and  be  glad. 

[H4] 


WATCH  •  AND  •  PRAY 


Shall  we  not  lift  with  the  crickets 
A  chorus  of  ready  cheer, 
Braving  the  frost  of  oblivion, 
Quick  to  be  happy  here  ? 

The  deep  red  cones  of  the  sumach 
And  the  woodbine's  crimson  sprays 
Have  bannered  the  common  roadside 
For  the  pageant  of  passing  days. 
These  are  the  oracles  Nature 
Fills  with  her  holy  breath, 
Giving  them  glory  of  color, 
Transcending  the  shadow  of  death. 

Here  in  the  sifted  sunlight 
A  spirit  seems  to  brood 
On  the  beauty  and  worth  of  being, 
In  tranquil,  instinctive  mood  ; 
And  the  heart,  athrob  with  gladness 
Such  as  the  wise  earth  knows, 
Wells  with  a  full  thanksgiving 
For  the  gifts  that  life  bestows: 

For  the  ancient  and  virile  nurture 
Of  the  teeming  primordial  ground, 

[H5] 


tl  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 

For  the  splendid  gospel  of  color, 
The  rapt  revelations  of  sound ; 
For  the  morning-blue  above  us 
And  the  rusted  gold  of  the  fern, 
For  the  chickadee's  call  to  valor 
Bidding  the  faint-heart  turn; 

For  fire  and  running  water, 
Snowfall  and  summer  rain; 
For  sunsets  and  quiet  meadows, 
The  fruit  and  the  standing  grain ; 
For  the  solemn  hour  of  moonrise 
Over  the  crest  of  trees, 
When  the  mellow  lights  are  kindled 
In  the  lamps  of  the  centuries. 

For  those  who  wrought  aforetime, 
Led  by  the  mystic  strain 
To  strive  for  the  larger  freedom, 
And  live  for  the  greater  gain; 
For  plenty  and  peace  and  playtime, 
The  homely  goods  of  earth, 
And  for  rare  immaterial  treasures 
Accounted  of  little  worth  ; 

For  art  and  learning  and  friendship, 
Where  beneficent  truth  is  supreme, 

[146] 


I  •  SHALL  •  GO  •  AND  •  RETURN 


Those  everlasting  cities 
Built  on  the  hills  of  dream; 
For  all  things  growing  and  goodly 
That  foster  this  life,  and  breed 
The  immortal  flower  of  wisdom 
Out  of  the  mortal  seed. 

But  most  of  all  for  the  spirit 
That  can  not  rest  nor  bide 
In  stale  and  sterile  convenience, 
Nor  safety  proven  and  tried, 
But  still  inspired  and  driven, 
Must  seek  what  better  may  be, 
And  up  from  the  loveliest  garden 
Must  climb  for  a  glimpse  of  sea. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 


The  Tasteless  Garden 

His  Gardens  next  your  admiration  call, 
On  every  side  you  look,  behold  the  Wall! 
No  pleasing  Intricacies  intervene, 
No  artful  wildness  to  perplex  the  scene ; 

[147] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Grove  nods  at  grove,  each  Alley  has  a  brother, 
And  half  the  platform  just  reflects  the  other. 
The  sufF  ring  eye  inverted  Nature  sees, 
Trees  cut  to  Statues,  statues  thick  as  trees; 
With  here  a  fountain,  never  to  be  played  ; 
And  there  a  summer-house,  that  knows  no  shade  ; 
Here  Amphitrite  sails  thro'  myrtle  bowers; 
There  Gladiators  fight,  or  die  in  flowers; 
Unwatered  see  the  drooping  sea-horse  mourn, 
And  swallows  roost  in  Nilus'  dusty  Urn. 
ALEXANDER  POPE. 
Moral  Essays,  Ep.  IV. 


Child's  Song 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 

Shining  with  flowers  of  every  hue; 
I  love  it  dearly  while  alone, 

But  I  shall  love  it  more  with  you: 
And  there  the  golden  bees  shall  crone, 

In  summer-time  at  break  of  morn, 
And  wake  us  with  their  busy  hum 

Around  the  Siha's  fragrant  thorn. 

[148] 


CT  TO-DAY  •  IS  •  WITH  •  YOU  U 

I  have  a  fawn  from  Aden's  land, 

On  leafy  buds  and  berries  nurst; 
And  you  shall  feed  him  from  your  hand, 

Though  he  may  start  with  fear  at  first. 
And  I  will  lead  you  where  he  lies 

For  shelter  in  the  noon-tide  heat; 
And  you  may  touch  his  sleepy  eyes, 

And  feel  his  little  silvery  feet. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


Gardens    Lost  and    Found 

THE  •  HOUR  •  THOU  •  READEST  -NOW  •  ON  •  ME 

WILL  •  NEVER  •  MORE  •  BE  •  OFFERED  •  THEE. 

IF  •  THOU  •  TAK'ST  •  HEED  •  WISE  •  THOU  •  WILT  •  BE. 


READ  •  HERE  •  LIGHT'S  •  MESSAGE 


And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 


The  snowdrop  and  the  violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 

And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odour, 

sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  he  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness. 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green; 

[153] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odour  within  the  sense; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air  — 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare: 

And  the  wand-like  lily  which  lifted  up, 

As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight  coloured  cup, 

Till  the  fiery  star  which  is  its  eye, 

Gazed  through  the  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blos- 

som, 

With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue. 

[154] 


THE  •  PAST  •  IS  -DEAD 


Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and 

dance 
With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels, 
And  flowrets  which  drooping  as  day  drooped  too 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue, 
To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise, 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 

WTien  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 

[155] 


tT  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  tT 

Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  light  and  the  odour  its  neighbour  shed, 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  made 

dear 

Wrapped  and  rilled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 
***** 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 

An  Eve  in  this  Eden;  a  ruling  grace 

Which  to  the  flowers  did  they  waken  or  dream, 

Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme, 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  mo- 
tion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even: 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven, 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth, 
Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  Earth! 

***** 

[156] 


WATCH  •  AND  •  PRAY 


Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  prest; 
You  might  hear  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast, 
That  the  coming  and  the  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 

***** 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  thro'  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder  showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier  bands; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 
PERCY  B.  SHELLEY. 

The  Sensitive  Plant. 


[157] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


An  Eastern  City's  Garden 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd:  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind; 
A  sudden  splendour  from  behind 
Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  gold-green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Craven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 

[158] 


I  •  RENEW  •  MYSELF  •  EVERY  •  DAY         tT 

In  honour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 


But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows, 
Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside, 
All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 
That  blew  by  night,  when  the  season  is  good, 
To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and  flutes. 
ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Maud. 


Across  the  Convent  garden  walls 

The  wind  blows  from  the  silver  seas; 
Black  shadow  of  the  cypress  falls 

Between  the  moon-meshed  olive  trees; 
Sleep-walking  from  their  golden  bowers, 
Flit  disembodied  orange  flowers. 

MATHILDE  BLIND. 
(The  Mystic's  Vision.) 

[159] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


He  passed  the  garden  where,  snow  white  and  red, 
I  tended  the  flowers  which  gave  us  our  bread, 

And  watered  my  lilies  and  roses; 
He  passed  and  repassed  both  early  and  late, 
And  lingering,  often  would  lean  on  the  gate 

While  I  tied  for  him  one  of  my  posies. 

Though  thou  seest  them  not  with  the  bodily  eye, 
The  language  of  flowers  much  better  than  I, 
I  know  that  thou  knowest,  my  brother. 

Violets  —  then  golden  daffodils 

Which  the  light  of  the  sun  like  a  winecup  fills  — 

Tall  tulips  like  flames  upspringing  — 
Golden-crown  wall-flowers  bright  as  his  locks  — 
Marigolds  —  balsams  —  and  perfumed   stocks 
Whose  scent's  like  a  blackbird's  singing. 
MATHILDE  BLIND. 

(Renunciation.) 


I  planted  a  rose  tree  in  my  garden, 

In  early  days  when  the  year  was  young; 

I  thought  it  would  bear  me  roses,  roses, 

While  nights  were  dewy  and  days  were  long. 

[160] 


PLANT  •  AND  •  WAIT 


It  bore  but  once,  and  a  white  rose  only  — 

A  lovely  rose  with  petals  of  light; 
Like  the  moon  in  heaven,  supreme  and  lonely, 
And  the  lightning  struck  it  one  summer  night. 
MATHILDE  BLIND. 

(Love  in  Exile.) 


Only  Roses 

To  a  garden  full  of  posies 
Cometh  one  to  gather  flowers; 
And  he  wanders  through  its  bowers 

Toying  with  the  wanton  roses, 
Who,  uprising  from  their  beds, 
Hold  on  high  their  shameless  heads 

With  their  pretty  lips  a-pouting, 

Never  doubting — never  doubting 
That  for  Cytherean  posies 
He  would  gather  aught  but  roses. 

In  a  nest  of  weeds  and  nettles, 

Lay  a  violet,  half  hidden; 

Hoping  that  his  glance  unbidden 
Yet  might  fall  upon  her  petals. 

Though  she  lived  alone,  apart, 

[161] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Hope  lay  nestling  at  her  heart,' 
But  alas!  the  cruel  awakening 
Set  her  little  heart  a-breaking, 
For  he  gathers  for  his  posies 
Only  roses  —  only  roses. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 
(The  Bab  Ballads.) 


In  a  College  Garden 

Birds,  that  cry  so  loud  in  the  old,  green,  bowery 

garden, 
Your  song  is  of  Love!  Love!  Love!    Will  ye 

weary  not  nor  cease? 
For  the  loveless  soul  grows  sick,  the  heart  that 

the  grey  days  harden; 

I  know  too  well  that  ye  love!     I  would  ye 
should  hold  your  peace! 

I  too  have  seen  Love  rise,  like  a  star;  I  have 

marked  his  setting; 

I   dreamed   in   my  folly  and  pride  that  Life 
without  Love  were  peace. 

[162] 


I  •  TRAVEL  •  FAST 


But  if  Love  should  await  me  yet,  in  the  land  of 

sleep  and  forgetting  — 

Ah,  bird,  could  you  sing  me  this,  I  would  not 
your  song  should  cease! 

A.  C.  BENSON. 

(Poems.) 


rhe  Moss-Rose 

Walking  to-day  in  your  garden,  O  gracious  lady, 
Little  you  thought,  as  you  turned  in  that  alley 

remote  and  shady 
And  gave  me  a  rose,  and  asked  if  I  knew  its 

savour — 
The  old-world  scent  of  the  moss-rose,  flower  of 

a  bygone  favour — 

Little  you  thought,  as  you  waited  the  word  of 
appraisement, 

Laughing  at  first,  and  then  amazed  at  my  amaze- 
ment, 

That  the  rose  you  gave  was  a  gift  already  cher- 
ished, 

And  the  garden  whence  you  plucked  it  a  garden 
long  perished. 

[163] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


But  I  —  I  saw  that  garden,  with  its  one  treasure 
The    tiny   moss-rose,    tiny    even   by   childhood's 

measure. 

And  the  long  morning  shadow  of  the  rusty  laurel, 
And  a  boy  and  a  girl  beneath  it,  flushed  with 

a  childish  quarrel. 

She  wept  for  her  one  little  bud;  but  he,  out- 

reaching 
The  hand  of  brotherly  right,  would  take  it  for 

all  her  beseeching; 
And  she  flung  her  arms  about  him,  and  gave  like 

a  sister, 
And  laughed  at  her  own  tears,  and  wept  again 

when  he  kissed  her. 

So  the  rose  is  mine  long  since,  and  whenever  I 

find  it 
And  drink  again  the  sharp  sweet  scent  of  the 

moss  behind  it, 
I  remember  the  tears  of  a  child,  and  her  love 

and  her  laughter, 
And  the  morning  shadows  of  youth,  and  the  night 

that  fell  thereafter. 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 

[164] 


The  Garden  of  Peace 

ONLY  •  AS     I  •  ABIDE  •  IN  •  THE  •  LIGHT  •  OF 

•  HEAVEN  • 
DO     I  •  FULFILL  •  THE  •  WILL  -  OF  •  MY  •  MAKER. 


PRAISE  •  A  •  FAIR  •  DAY  •  AT  •  NIGHT       U 


When  almost  ended  was  the  month  of  May, 
And  I  had  roamed,  throughout  the  summer's  day, 
Along  the  meadow  green,  whereof  I  told, 
The  freshly  springing  daisy  to  behold, 
And  when  the  sun  declined  from  south  to  west, 
And  closed  was  this  fair  flower,  and  gone  to  rest 
For  fear  of  darkness  that  she  held  in  dread, 
Home  to  my  house  full  hastily  I  sped; 
And,  in  a  little  garden  of  my  own, 
Well-benched    with    fresh-cut    turf,    with    grass 

o'ergrown, 

I  bade  that  men  my  couch  should  duly  make; 
For  daintiness  and  for  the  summer's  sake, 
I  bade  them  strew  fresh  blossoms  o'er  my  bed. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 
(Prologue  of  The  Legend  of  Good 


A  Flower  Garden 

Tell  me,  ye  Zephyrs,  that  unfold, 
While  fluttering  o'er  this  gay  Recess, 
Pinions  that  fanned  the  teeming  mould 

[167] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Of  Eden's  blissful  wilderness, 
Did  only  softly  stealing  hours 
There  close  the  peaceful  lives  of  flowers? 

Say,  when  the  moving  creatures  saw 
All  kinds  commingled  without  fear, 
Prevailed  a  like  indulgent  law 
For  the  still  growths  that  prosper  here? 
Did  wanton  faun  and  kid  forbear 
The  half-blown  rose,  the  lily  spare? 

Or  peeped  they  often  from  their  beds, 
And  prematurely  disappeared, 
Devoured  like  pleasure  ere  it  spreads 
A  bosom  to  the  sun  endeared? 
If  such  their  harsh  untimely  doom, 
It  falls  not  here  on  bud  or  bloom. 


All  summer  long  the  happy  Eve 
Of  this  fair  Spot  her  flowers  may  bind, 
Nor  e'er,  with  ruffled  fancy,  grieve, 
From  the  next  glance  she  casts,  to  find 
That  love  for  little  things  by  Fate 
Is  rendered  vain  as  love  for  great. 

[168] 


SO  •  MARCHES  •  THE  •  GOD -OF- DAY 

Yet,  where  the  guardian  fence  is  wound, 
So  subtly  are  our  eyes  beguiled 
We  see  not  nor  suspect  a  bound, 
No  more  than  in  some  forest  wild ; 
The  sight  is  free  as  air — or  crost 
Only  by  art  in  nature  lost. 

And,  though  the  jealous  turf  refuse 
By  random  footsteps  to  be  prest, 
And  feed  on  never-sullied  dews, 
Ye,  gentle  breezes  from  the  west, 
With  all  the  ministers  of  hope 
Are  tempted  to  this  sunny  slope! 

And  hither  throngs  of  birds  resort; 
Some,  inmates  lodged  in  shady  nests, 
Some,  perched  on  stems  of  stately  port 
That  nod  to  welcome  transient  guests; 
While  hare  and  leveret,  seen  at  play, 
Appear  not  more  shut  out  than  they. 

Apt  emblem  (for  repose  of  pride) 
This  delicate  enclosure  shows 
Of  modest  kindness,  that  would  hide 
The  firm  protection  she  bestows; 

[169] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Of  manners,  like  its  viewless  fence, 
Ensuring  peace  to  innocence. 

Thus  spake  the  moral  Muse  —  her  wing 
Abruptly  spreading  to  depart, 
She  left  that  farewell  offering, 
Moments  of  some  docile  heart; 
That  may  respect  the  good  old  age 
When  Fancy  was  Truth's  willing  Page; 
And  Truth  would  skim  the  flowery  glade, 
Though  entering  but  as  Fancy's  Shade. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow  broad  stream 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 
Waves  all  its  lilies. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
(The  Gardener's  Daughter.) 

[170] 


IT  •  IS  •  LATER  •  THAN  •  YOU  •  THINK 

A  garden  bower'd  close 

With  plaited  allays  of  the  trailing  rose, 

Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 

Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 

Purple-spiked  lavendar : 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 

From  brawling  storms, 

From  weary  wind; 

With  youthful  fancy  reinspired, 

We  may  hold  converse,  with  all  forms 

Of  the  many-sided  mind.   .    .    . 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


In  Green  Old  Gardens 

In  green  old  gardens,  hidden  away 

From  sight  of  revel  and  sound  of  strife, 
Where  the  bird  may  sing  out  his  soul  ere 

he  die, 
Nor  fears  for  the  night,  so  he  lives  his  day; 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Where  the  high  red  walls,  which  are  growing 

grey 

With  their  lichen  and  moss  embroideries, 
Seem  sadly  and  sternly  to  shut  out  life, 
Because  it  is  often  as  red  as  they; 


Where  even  the  bee  has  time  to  glide 
(Gathering  gayly  his  honey's  store) 

Right  to  the  heart  of  the  old-world  flowers — 
China-asters  and  purple  stocks, 
Dahlias  and  tall  red  holly-hocks, 

Laburnums  raining  their  golden  showers, 
Columbines  prim  of  the  folded  core, 
And  lupins,  and  larkspurs,  and  "  London  pride  " ; 


Where  the  heron  is  waiting  amongst  the  reeds, 
Grown  tame  in  the  silence  that  reigns  around, 

Broken  only,  now  and  then, 
By  shy  woodpecker  or  noisy  jay, 
By  the  far-off  watch-dog's  muffled  bay; 

But  where  never  the  purposeless  laughter  of 

men, 

Or  the  seething  city's  murmurous  sound 
Will  float  up  over  the  river-weeds. 

[172] 


tT  IN  •  HEAVEN  •  IS  •  REST  U 

Here  may  I  live  what  life  I  please, 
Married  and  buried  out  of  sight, — 

Married  to  pleasure,  and  buried  to  pain, — 
Hidden  away  amongst  scenes  like  these, 
Under  the  fans  of  the  chestnut  trees; 

Living  my  child-life  over  again, 
With  the  further  hope  of  a  fallen  delight, 
Blithe  as  the  birds  and  wise  as  the  bees. 

In  green  old  gardens,  hidden  away 

From  sight  of  revel  and  sound  of  strife, — 
Here  have  I  leisure  to  breathe  and  move, 
And  to  do  my  work  in  a  nobler  way ; 
To  sing  my  songs,  and  to  say  my  say; 

To  dream  my  dreams,  and  to  love  my  love; 
To  hold  my  faith,  and  to  live  my  life, 
Making  the  most  of  its  shadowy  day. 

VIOLET  FANE. 


Shut  Out 

The  door  was  shut,  I  looked  between 
Its  iron  bars;  and  saw  it  lie, 
My  garden,  mine,  beneath  the  sky, 

Pied  with  all  flowers  bedewed  and  green. 

[173] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


From  bough  to  bough  the  song-birds  crossed, 
From  flower  to  flower  the  moths  and  bees; 
With  all  its  nests  and  stately  trees 

It  had  been  mine,  and  it  was  lost. 

A  shadowless  spirit  kept  the  gate, 
Blank  and  unchanging  like  the  grave, 
Is  peering  through,  said  :  "  Let  me  have 

Some  buds  to  cheer  my  outcast  state." 

He  answered  not.     "  Or  give  me,  then, 
But  one  small  twig  from  shrub  or  tree, 
And  bid  my  home  remember  me 

Until  I  come  to  it  again." 

The  spirit  was  silent;  but  he  took 
Mortar  and  stone  to  build  a  wall; 
He  left  no  loophole  great  or  small 

Through  which  my  straining  eyes  might  look. 

So  now  I  sit  here  quite  alone, 

Blinded  with  tears;  nor  grieve  for  that, 
For  nought  is  left  worth  looking  at 

Since  my  delightful  land  is  gone. 

[174] 


LIVE  •  TO  •  DIE  U 


A  violet  bed  is  budding  near, 

Wherein  a  lark  has  made  her  nest; 
And  good  they  are,  but  not  the  best; 

And  dear  they  are,  but  so  dear. 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI. 


An  October  Garden 

In  my  Autumn  garden  I  was  fain 

To  mourn  among  my  scattered  roses; 
Alas  for  that  last  rosebud  which  uncloses 
To  Autumn's  languid  sun  and  rain 
When  all  the  world  is  on  the  wane! 

Which  has  not  felt  the  sweet  restraint  of  June, 
Nor  heard  the  nightingale  in  tune. 

Broad-faced  asters  by  my  garden  walk, 
You  are  but  coarse  compared  with  roses; 
More  choice,  more  dear  that  rosebud  which 

uncloses, 

Faint-scented,  pinched,  upon  its  stock, 
That  least  and  last,  which  cold  winds  balk; 
A  rose  it  is  though  least  and  last  of  all, 
A  rose  to  me  though  at  the  fall. 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI. 

[i75] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


O  my  Garden,  full  of  roses, 

Red  as  passion  and  as  sweet, 
Failing  not  when  summer  closes, 

Lasting  on  through  cold  and  heat! 
O  my  Garden,  full  of  lilies, 

White  as  peace,  and  very  tall, 
In  your  midst  my  heart  so  still  is 

I  can  hear  the  last  leaf  fall. 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 

(Garden  Secrets.) 


In  a  Kentish  Rose  Garden 

Beside  a  Dial  in  the  leafy  close, 
Where  every  bush  was  burning  with  the  Rose, 
With  million  roses  falling  flake  by  flake 
Upon  the  lawn  in  fading  summer  snows: 

I  read  the  Persian  Poet's  rhyme  of  old, 
Each  thought  a  ruby  in  a  ring  of  gold — 
Old  thoughts  so  young,  that,  after  all  these  years, 
They're  writ  on  every  rose-leaf  yet  unrolled. 

[176] 


SING  •  WITH  •  THE  •  BIRDS 


You  may  not  know  the  secret  tongue  aright 
The  Sunbeams  on  their  rosy  tablets  write; 
Only  a  poet  may  perchance  translate 
Those  ruby-tinted  hieroglyphs  of  light. 

MATHILDE  BLIND. 

(On   Reading   the   "  Rubaiyat   of   Omar  Khay- 
yam") 


A  Garden  Song 

Here,  in  this  sequestered  close 
Blown  the  hyacinth  and  the  rose; 
Here  beside  the  modest  stock 
Flaunts  the  flowing  holly-hock; 
Here,  without  a  pang,  one  sees 
Ranks,  conditions  and  degrees. 

All  the  seasons  run  their  race 
In  this  quiet  resting-place; 
Peach,  and  apricot,  and  fig 
Here  will  ripen,  and  grow  big; 
Here  is  store  and  overplus,— 
More  had  not  Alcinoiis! 

[177] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Here,  in  alleys,  cool  and  green, 
Far  ahead  the  thrush  is  seen; 
Here  along  the.  southern  wall 
Keeps  the  bee  his  festival; 
All  is  quiet  else  —  afar 
Sounds  of  toil  and  turmoil  are. 

Here  be  shadows  large  and  long; 
Here  be  spaces  meet  for  song; 
Grant,  O  garden-god,  that  I 
Now  that  none  profane  is  nigh,  — 
Now  that  mood  and  moment  please, 
Find  the  fair  Pierides. 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
(At  the  Sign  of  the  Lyre.) 


The  Spirit  of  all  Gardens 

Here  I  untrammel. 

Here  I  pluck  loose  the  body's  cerementing, 
And  break  the  tomb  of  life;  here  I  shake  off 
The  bur  o'  the  world,  man's  congregation  shun, 
And  to  the  antique  order  of  the  dead         , 

[178] 


PAX  •  VOBISCUM 


I  take  the  tongueless  vows;  my  call  is  set 
Here  in  thy  bosom  ;  my  little  trouble  is  ended 
In  a  little  peace. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 
(An  Anthem  of  Earth.) 


[179] 


The  Garden  of  God  and  the  Soul 


I  •  DIE  -  TO-DAY  •  AND 
I  •  LIVE  •  TO-MORROW. 


t?        ARISE -MY -SOUL- AND -REJOICE 


And  the  Lord  God  planted  a  garden  eastward, 
in  Eden;  and  there  he  put  the  man  whom  he 
had  formed.  And  out  of  the  ground  made  the 
Lord  God  to  grow  every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to 
the  sight,  and  good  for  food. 

Genesis,  ch.  2,  V  8-9. 


If  thou  sit  here   to  view   this  pleasant   garden 

place, 
Think  thus — At  last  will  come  a  frost  and  all 

these  flowers  deface: 

But  if  thou  sit  at  ease  to  rest  thy  weary  bones, 
Remember   death    brings   final    rest   to   all   our 

grievous  groans; 

So  whether  for  delight,  or  here  thou  sit  for  ease, 
Think  still  upon  the  latter  day :  so  shall  thou 

God  best  please. 

GEORGE  GASCOIGNE. 
Lines  written  on  a  Garden  Seat. 

How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean 
Are  thy  returns!    Ev'n  as  the  flowers  in  Spring, 

To  which  besides  their  own  demean, 
The  late-past   frosts  tribute   of  pleasure  bring; 

[183] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Grief  melts  away 
Like  snow  in  May, 
As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 

Who  would  have  thought  my  shrivell'd  heart 
Could  have  recover'd  greenness?     It  was  gone 

Quite  under  ground;  as  flowers  depart 
To  see  their  mother-root,  when  they  have  blown, 
Where  they  together, 
All  the  hard  weather, 
Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house  unknown. 

These  are  thy  wonders,  Lord  of  power, 
Killing  and  quick'ning,  bringing  down  to  Hell 

And  up  to  Heaven  in  an  hour; 
Making  a  chiming  of  a  passing  bell. 
We  say  amiss 
This  or  that  is; 
Thy  word  is  all,  if  we  could  spell. 

O  that  I  once  past  changing  were, 
Fast  in  thy  Paradise  where  no  flower  can  wither  ! 

Many  a  Spring  I  shoot  up  fair, 
OfFring    at    Heaven,    growing    and    groaning 

thither; 

Nor  doth  my  flower 
Want  a  Spring  shower, 
My  sins  and  I  joining  together. 

[184] 


IN  •  CCELO  •  QUIES 


But  while  I  grow  in  a  straight  line, 
Still  upwards  bent,  as  if  Heaven  were  mine  own, 

Thy  anger  comes  and  I  decline; 
What  frost  to  that?    What  pole  is  not  the  zone 
Where  all  things  burn, 
WTien  thou  dost  turn, 
And  the  least  frown  of  Thine  is  shown? 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again, 
After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write; 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing:  O  my  only  light! 
— It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  Thy  tempest  befell  all  night. 

These  are  Thy  wonders,  Lord  of  love, 
To  make  us  see  we  are  but  flowers  that  glide ; 
Which  when  we  once  can  find  and  prove, 
Thou  hast  a  garden  for  us  where  to  bide. 
Who  would  be  more 
Travelling  through  store, 
Forfeit  their  Paradise  by  their  pride. 
GEORGE  HERBERT. 

The  Flower. 

[185] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Brave  flowers  —  that  I  could  gallant  it  like  you, 

And  be  as  little  vain! 
You  come  abroad,  and  make  a  harmless  show, 

And  to  your  beds  of  earth  again. 
You  are  not  proud:  you  know  your  birth: 
For  your  embroider'd  garments  are  from  earth. 


You  do  obey  your  months  and  times,  but  I 

Would  have  it  ever  Spring; 
My  fate  would  know  no  Winter,  never  die, 

Nor  think  of  such  a  thing. 
O  that  I  could  my  bed  of  earth  but  view 
And  smile,  and  look  as  cheerfully  as  you! 


O  teach  me  to  see  Death  and  not  to  fear, 

But  rather  to  take  truce! 
How  often  have  I  seen  you  at  a  bier, 

And  there  look  fresh  and  spruce! 
You  fragrant  flowers!  then  teach  me,  that  my 

breath 
Like  yours  may  sweeten  and  perfume  my  death. 

HENRY  KING. 
A   Contemplation  upon  Flowers. 

[i  86] 


FESTINA  •  LENTE 


The  Garden  of  Eden 

So  on  he  fares,  and  to  the  border  comes 
Of  Eden,  where  delicious  Paradise, 
Now  nearer,  crowns  with  her  enclosure  green, 
As  with  a  rural  mound,  the  champion  head 
Of  a  steep  wilderness,  whose  hairy  sides 
With  thicket  overgrown,  grotesque  and  wild, 
Access  denied;  and  overhead  up-grew 
Insuperable  highth  of  loftiest  shade, 
Cedar,  and  pine,  and  fir,  and  branching  palm, 
A  sylvan  scene,  and,  as  the  ranks  ascend 
Shade  above  shade,  a  woody  theatre 
Of  stateliest  view.    Yet  higher  than  their  tops 
The  verdurous  wall  of  Paradise  upsprung; 
Which  to  our  general  sire  gave  prospect  large 
Into  his  nether  empire  neighbouring  round. 
And  higher  than  that  wall  a  circling  row 
Of  goodliest  trees,  loaden  with  fairest  fruit, 
Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue, 
Appeared,  with  gay  enamelled  colours  mixed  ; 
In  which  the  sun  more  glad  impressed  his  beams 
Than  in  fair  Evening  cloud,  or  humid  bow, 
When  God  hath  showered  the  earth;  so  lovely 

seemed 
That  landskip.     And  of  pure  now  purer  air 

[187] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Meets  his  approach,  and  to  the  heart  inspires 
Vernal  delight  and  joy,  able  to  drive 
All  sadness  but  despair.    Now  gentle  gales 
Fanning  their  odoriferous  wings,  dispense 
Native  perfumes,  and  whisper  whence  they  stole 
Prose  balmy  spoils.  .  .  . 

Beneath  him,  with  new  wonder,  now  he  views, 

To  all  delight  of  human  sense  exposed, 

In  narrow   room   Nature's  whole  wealth;  yea, 

more  !  — 

A  Heaven  on  Earth:  for  blissful  Paradise 
Of  God  the  garden  was,  by  him  in  the  east 
Of  Eden  planted.     Eden  stretched  her  line 
From  Auran  eastward  to  the  royal  towers 
Of  great  Seleucia,  built  by  Grecian  Kings, 
Or  where  the  sons  of  Eden  long  before 
Dwelt  in  Telasser.     In  this  pleasant  soil 
His  far  more  pleasant  garden  God  ordained. 
Out  of  the  fertile  ground  he  caused  to  grow 
All  trees  of  noblest  kind  for  sight,  smell,  taste; 
And  all  amid  them  stood  the  Tree  of  Life, 
High,  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold;  and  next  to  life, 
Our  death,  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  grew  fast  by  — 
Knowledge  of  good,  bought  dear  by  knowing  ill. 

[188] 


LEX  •  DEI  •  LUX  •  DIEI 


Southward  through  Eden  went  a  river  large, 
Nor  changed  his  course,  but  through  the  shaggly 

hill 

Passed  underneath  ingulfed  ;  for  God  had  thrown 
That  mountain,  as  his  garden-mould,  high  raised 
Upon  the  rapid  current,  which,  through  veins 
Of  porous  earth  with  kindly  thirst  up-drawn, 
Rose  a  fresh  fountain,  and  with  many  a  rill 
Watered  the  garden;  thence  united  fell 
Down  the  steep  glade,  and  met  the  nether  flood, 
Which  from  his  darksome  passage  now  appears, 
And  now,  divided  into  four  main  streams, 
Runs  diverse,  wandering  many  a  famous  realm 
And  country  whereof  here  needs  no  account; 
But  rather  to  tell  how,  if  Art  could  tell 
How,  from  that  sapphire  fount  the  aisped  brooks, 
Rolling  on  orient  pearl  and  sands  of  gold, 
With  mazy  error  under  pendent  shades 
Ran  nectar,  visiting  each  plant,  and  fed 
Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise,  which  not  nice  Art 
In  beds  and  curious  knots,  but  Nature  boon 
Poured  forth  profuse  on  hill,  and  dale,  and  plain, 
Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly  smote 
The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierced  shade 
Imbrowned  the  noontide  bowers.    Thus  was  this 

place, 

[189] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


A  happy  rural  seat  of  various  view! 

Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and 

balm; 

Others  whose  fruit,  burnished  with  golden  rind, 
Hung  amiable  —  Hesperian  fables  true, 
If  true,  here  only  —  and  of  delicious  taste. 
Betwixt  them  lawns,  or  level  downs,  and  flocks 
Grazing  the  tender  herb,  were  interposed, 
Or  palmy  hillock;  or  the  flowery  lap 
Of  some  irriguous  valley  spread  her  store, 
Flowers  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose. 
Another  side,  umbrageous  grots  and  caves 
Of  cool  recess,  o'er  which  the  mantling  vine 
Lays  forth  her  purple  grape,  and  gently  weeps 
Luxuriant;  meanwhile  murmuring  waters  fall 
Down  the  slope  hills  dispersed,  or  in  a  lake, 
That  to  the  fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crowned 
Her  crystal  mirror  holds,  unite  their  streams. 
The  birds  their  quire  apply;  airs,  vernal  airs, 
Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grave,  attune 
The  trembling  leaves,  while  universal  Pan, 
Knit  with  the  Graces  and  the  Hours  in  dance, 
Led  on  the  eternal  Spring. 

JOHN  MILTON. 
Paradise  Lost  (Bk.  IV). 

[190] 


UMBRA  •  DEI 


In  a  garden  —  man  was  placed, 

Meet  abode  for  innocence, 
With  his  Maker's  image  graced; 

—  Sin  crept  in  and  drove  him  thence, 
Through  the  world,  a  wretch  undone, 
Seeking  rest,  and  finding  none. 


In  a  garden — on  the  night, 

When  our  Saviour  was  betray'd, 

With  that  world-redeeming  might, 
In  his  agony  he  pray'd! 

Till  he  drank  the  vengeance  up, 

And  with  mercy  fill'd  the  cup. 


In  a  garden — on  the  cross, 

When  the  spear  his  heart  had  riven, 
And  for  earth's  primeval  loss, 

Heaven's  best  ransom  had  been  given, 
— Jesus  rested  from  his  woes, 
Jesus  from  the  dead  arose. 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

Garden  Thoughts. 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloom'd, 
And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western 

sky  in  the  night, 
I  mourn'd  —  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-re- 

turning spring. 

O  ever-returning  spring!  trinity  sure  to  me  you 

bring! 
Lilac  blooming  perennial,  and  drooping  star  in 

the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

In    the    door-yard    fronting   an    old    farm-house, 

near  the  white-wash'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac  bush,  tall-growing,  with  heart- 

shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom,   rising,   delicate, 

with  the  perfume  strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf   a  miracle  .  .  .  and   from   this 

bush  in  the  door-yard, 
With  delicate-color'd  blossoms,  and  heart-shaped 

leaves  of  rich  green, 
A  sprig,  with  its  flower,  I  break. 

In  the  swamp,  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

[192] 


U       THUS  •  ETERNITY  •  APPROACHETH        U 

Solitary,  the  thrush, 

The  hermit,  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the 

settlements, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Sing  on,  there  in  the  swamp! 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender!    I  hear  your  notes 

— I  hear  your  call; 

1  hear — I  come  presently — I  understand  you; 
But  a  moment  I  linger — for  the  lustrous  star  has 

detained  me; 

The  star,  my  departing  comrade,  holds  and  de- 
tains me. 

O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one 

there  I  loved? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large 

sweet  soul  that  has  gone? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be,  for  the  grave  of 

him  I  love? 

Sea-winds,  blown  from  east  and  west, 

Blown  from  the  eastern  sea,  and  blown  from  the 

western    sea,    till    there   on    the    prairies 

meeting; 

[193] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


These,  and  with   these,   and  the  breath  of  my 

chant, 
I  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

Sing  on!  sing  on,  you  gray-brown  bird! 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses  —  pour  your 

chant  from  the  bushes; 
Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and 

pines. 

Sing  on,  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song; 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid,  and  free,  and  tender! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul  !  O  wondrous  singer  ! 

You   only    I    hear  .  .  .  yet   the   Star  holds  me 

(but  will  soon  depart;) 
Yet  the  lilac,  with  mastering  odor,  holds  me. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me; 
The  gray-brown  bird  I  know,  receiv'd  us  com- 

rades three; 
And  he  sang  what  seem'd  the  carol  of  death,  and 

a  verse  for  him  I  love. 

t'94] 


tT  UT  •  FILII  •  LUCIS  •  INCEDITE  U 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars,  and  the  ghostly  pines 

so  still, 
Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held,  as  if  by  their  hands,  my  comrades  in 

the  night; 
And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of 

the  bird. 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night; 
Passing,    unloosing   the   hold    of   my   comrades' 

hands; 
Passing   the   song  of   the   hermit  bird,   and   the 

tallying  song  of  my  soul, 

(Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  vary- 
ing, ever-altering  song, 
As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising 

and  falling,  flooding  the  night, 
Sadly    sinking    and    fainting,     as    waning    and 

warning,  and  yet  again  bursting  with  joy, 
Covering  the  earth,  and  filling  the  spread  of  the 

heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from 

recesses, ) 

[195] 


U  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  tJ 

Passing,    I    leave    thee,   lilac   with    heart-shaped 

leaves ; 
I   leave  thee   there  in  the  door-yard,  blooming, 

returning  with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee; 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the 

west,  communing  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous,  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  I  keep,  and  all,  rebrievements  out  of 

the  night; 
The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown 

bird, 
And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my 

soul, 
With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star,  with  the 

countenance  full  of  woe, 
With  the  lilac  tall,  and  its  blossoms  of  mastering 

odor  ; 
With  the  holders  holding  my  hand,  nearing  the 

call  of  the  bird, 
Comrades  mine,  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their 

memory   ever    I    keep — for    the    dead    I 

loved  so  well; 

[196] 


IN  •  LUCE  •  TUA  •  FRUAMUR  •  LUCE 

For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and 

lands  .  .  .     and   this  for  his  dear  sake; 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird,  twined  with  the  chant 

of  my  soul, 

There  in  the  fragrant  pines,  and  the  cedars  dusk 
and  dim. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

Leaves  of  Grass. 


If  I  could  put  my  woods  in  song 
And  tell  what's  there  enjoyed, 
All  men  would  to  my  gardens  throng, 
And  leave  the  cities  void. 

In  my  plot  no  tulips  blow, — 

Snow — loving  pines  and  oaks  instead; 

And  rank  the  savage  maples  grow 

From  Spring's  faint  flush  to  Autumn  red. 

My  garden  is  a  forest  ledge 

Which  older  forests  bound; 

The  banks  slope  down  to  the  blue  lake-edge, 

Then  plunge  to  depths  profound. 

[197] 


U  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  tT 

Here  once  the  Deluge  ploughed, 
Laid  the  terraces  one  by  one; 
Ebbing  later  whence  it  flowed, 
They  bleach  and  dry  in  the  sun. 

The  sowers  made  haste  to  depart, — 
The  wind  and  the  birds  which  sowed  it; 
Not  for  fame,  nor  by  rules  of  art, 
Planted  these,  and  tempests  flowed  it. 

Waters  that  wash  my  garden-side 
Play  not  in  Nature's  lawful  web, 
They  hold  not  moon  or  solartide, — 
Five  years  elapse  from  flood  to  ebb. 

Here  hasted,  in  old  time,  Jove, 
And  every  god, — none  did  refuse; 
And  be  sure  at  last  came  Love, 
And  after  Love,  the  Muse. 

Keen  ears  can  catch  a  syllable, 

As  if  one  spake  to  another, 

In  the  hemlocks  tall,  untamable, 

And  what  the  whispering  grasses  smother. 

[198] 


AS  •  A  •  SHADOW  •  SUCH  •  IS  •  LIFE 

/Eolian  harps  in  the  pine 
Ring  with  the  song  of  the  Fates; 
Infant  Bacchus  in  the  vine, — 
For  distant  yet  his  chorus  waits. 

Canst  thou  copy  in  verse  one  chime 
Of  the  wood-bell's  peal  and  cry, 
Write  in  a  book  the  morning's  prime, 
Or  match  with  words  that  tender  sky? 

Wonderful  verse  of  the  gods, 
Of  one  import,  of  varied  tone; 
They  chant  the  bliss  of  their  abodes 
To  man  imprisoned  in  his  own. 

Ever  the  words  of  the  gods  resound ; 
But  the  porches  of  man's  ear 
Seldom  in  this  low  life's  round 
Are  unsealed,  that  he  may  hear. 

Wandering  voices  in  the  air 
And  murmurs  in  the  wold 
Speak  what  I  cannot  declare, 
Yet  cannot  all  withhold. 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


When  the  shadow  fell  on  the  lake, 
The  whirlwind  in  ripples  wrote 
Air-bells  of  fortune  that  shine  and  break, 
And  omens  above  thought. 

But  the  meanings  cleave  to  the  lake, 
Cannot  be  carried  in  book  or  urn  ; 
Go  thy  ways  now,  come  later  back, 
On  waves  and  hedges  still  they  burn. 

These  the  fates  of  men  forecast, 
Of  better  men  than  live  to-day; 
If  who  can  read  them  comes  at  last 
He  will  spell  in  the  sculpture,  "  Stay." 
R.  W.  EMERSON. 

My  Garden. 


A  Ballad  of  White  Maidens 

As  I  walked  in  the  moonlight,  a  garden  I  found 
By    strange    sorcery    wrought    all    about    and 

around ; 
When    the   voices   are   muffled,    the   vistas  are 

blurr'd, 

[200] 


DUM  •  VIVIMUS  •  VIVAMUS 


Dense  incense  makes  faint  the  indicible  word, 
Folding  round  broider'd  vestments  and  far  flash- 

ing gems 

Of  pontiff's  tiaras  and  kings  diadems. 
The  cups  of  the  tall-springing  lilies  confuse 
With  white  maidens'  faces  moist-eyed,  while  the 

dews 
Shine    ghostlike    and    pallid    on    mist-breathing 

grass, 
Where  pearl-sprinkled  sandals  fall  light  as  they 

pass  ; 

The  maid's  trailing  garments  glide  over  and  raise 
Such  light  stir  as  June  in  her  slumberous  days 
Permits  to  low  zephyrs  with  pauses  between 
Lest  they  wanton  too  long  with  the  leaf's  silver 

sheen  ; 

The  cooing  dove  murmurs  in  languorous  elms 
Of    the    dream    and    the    dreamer    in    reverie's 

realms. 

O   willow-sweet  maidens!     What  maidens  are 

these, 
Curd-white   in   the  moonlight  and  honey-lipp'd 

breeze  ? 

Old  voices  grow  faint,  from  the  summit  they  fall, 
Your  measures  enchant  me,  I  come  at  your  call. 

[20i] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


0  faint  grow  the  tocsin,  the  trumpet,  the  drum! 
Enswathe  me,  enfold  me  ;  white  maidens,  I  come  ! 

Ah,  stay  me  with  lilies,  sweet  press  of  your  faces, 
The  nearness  and  warmth  of  your  mystic  em- 

braces, 

Dissolving  the  lonely  inviolate  state 
Which   I    shared   with   the   dwellers  outside   of 

your  gate! 
By  a  superincession  fantastical,  sweet, 

1  am  merged  in  the  maids  of  this  shadow'd  re- 

treat ; 

They  are  I,  I  am  they,  neither  many  nor  one, 
As  the  light  and  the  warmth  from  the  fount  of 

the  sun. 

Within  the  charm'd  walls  is  a  place  of  delight, 
And  a  world  from  its  windows  shines  strange  to 

the  sight, 

With  the  pomp  of  the  night  and  the  glory  of  day 
Where  the  long  golden  prospects  stretch  shining 

away. 

With  pennons  and  banners  the  pageants  pass  by, 
And  the  crash  of  their  music  goes  up  to  the  sky; 
The  centre  and  shrine  is  the  paradise  fair 
And  crown'd  'midst  his  maidens  the  monarch  is 

there. 

[202] 


LIGHT  •  IS  •  THE  •  PARENT  •  OF  •  LIFE      U 

O  wrapp'd  all  about  by  the  ministry  blest 
And  the  intimate  sense  of  the  garden  of  rest, 
How  vague  are  the  legends,  the  memories  dim 
Of  the  King's  distant  country  surviving  for  him ! 
But  a  hint  in  the  stars,  but  a  voice  in  the  wind, 
An  echo  of  canticles  lost  to  the  mind, 
Welling  up  from  the  depths  in  the  sea's  organ 

voice, 
Bear  witness  how  far  he  has  err'd  in  his  choice. 

In  the   garden    are   stairways   and    turrets   and 

towers ; 
'Twas  spring  when  He  enter'd,  and  sweet  were 

the  flowers; 
The   maidens   sang  ballads,   how   blithe   to  the 

heart ! 

All  bells  rang  the  nuptials  of  Nature  and  Art, 
And  the  world  to  the  walls  in  high  carnival  came, 
Bright  eyes  full  of  rapture,  bright  faces  aflame; 
But  what  of  that  moaning  when  music  is  still'd? 
That  ache  in  the  pause  which  no  pageant  has 

fill'd? 

The  garden  has  hill-tops,  the  stars  live  above; 
It  is  summertide  now  and  the  world  is  all  love; 
The  maids  in  full  chorus  sing  jubilant  odes, 
A  glory  abides  in  the  vistas  and  roads. 

[203] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


O  high  the  emprizes  and  high  the  renown, 
And  the  King  hath  his  maidens,  the  King  hath 

his  crown  ! 
But   what   of   the  whispers   which   hint   in   his 

sleep  ? 
Do  hearts  never  sorrow?    Do  eyes  never  weep? 

The  garden  has  sycamores  stately  and  old; 

O  the   time  is  rich  autumn,  the  leaves  are  all 

gold, 
Round  maids  in  the  moonlight,  high-seeming  and 

soft, 

But  a  mist  looking  mournful  envelops  them  oft; 
With  a  voice  full  of  loss  falls  the  wave  on  the 

strand  ; 
Lone  horsemen  ride  hurriedly  far  through  the 

land; 
Cold    sleet    against    windows   beats    heavy    and 

drives 
On  the  overblown  blooms  and  the  bees'  ravish'd 

hives. 

All  voice  in  that  garden  dies  down  in  a  dirge, 
And  the  King  hath  his  sorrow  to  crown  him 

and  scourge. 
Far,    far    through    the    windows    his    vision    is 

strain'd, 

[204] 


tT  I  •  STAND  •  ON  •  EARTH  t!T 

The  young  have  grown  old,  and  the  old  have 

not  gain'd 

Save  in  sense  of  illusion  and  measureless  loss; 
As  the  weary  wayfarer  goes  dragging  his  cross 
O'er  the  stones  of  the  road  to  the  hills  out  of 

reach, 

Where  storms  utter  faintly  their  ominous  speech ; 
'Mid  the  ghosts  of  the  maidens,  ah,  vain  let  him 

roam, 
And  remember  at  last  how  he  stray'd  from  his 

home! 

Deep  frost  in  the  garden,  the  maidens  are  dead, 
The  King  is  a-cold  with  the  snows  on  his  head ; 
Through  the  rime  on  the  windows  forth-looking 

sees  he 
The  dearth  and  the  dark  where  the  glory  should 

be. 

Where  now  are  the  stars  and  the  altitude  keen, 
All  the  music  of  old  in  the  shining  demesne, 
The  fellowship  lofty  reserved  to  adorn 
That  secret  pageant  and  state  inborn? 
The  heart  cannot  dream  it  though  hearts  may 

yearn, 

Nor  the  way  of  attainment  the  eye  discern, 
But  the  King  in  the  garden,  of  all  bereft, 

[205] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Knows  that  which  was  priceless  for  this  was  left, 

For  a  paradise  fated  with  time  to  end, 

The  place  of  the  Vision  whence  Kings  descend; 

And  over  the  desolate,  lonely  road 

Dim  eyes  put  forth  from  his  waste  abode, 

To  watch  for  a  herald  with  tidings  sent 

From  the  land  withdrawn  of  the  soul's  content, 

For  a  beacon  speaking  the  darkness  through 

Of  the  light  beyond  and  the  further  blue, 

Past  all  sea-cries  for  a  distant  tone 

From  the  royal  realm  which  was  once  his  own. 

When  will  it  come  to  him?    Comes  it  now? 
Falls  there  a  gleam  on  his  clouded  brow? 
The  wasting  garden  is  moist  and  wan, 
Far  has  the  King  of  the  Garden  gone! 
Whither  he  travels  and  what  may  chance  — 
Whether  restored  from  the  life-long  trance, 
Whether  to  tarry  in  exile  far 
Where  other  illusive  gardens  are  — 
Who  shall  acquaint  us?     He  that  knows 
The  one  true  place  for  a  King's  repose, 
And,  long  though  he  travel  the  outward  track, 
That  the  King  came  forth  and  the  King  goes 
back.          ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE. 
(A  Book  of  Mystery  and  Vision.} 

[206] 


TIME  •  THE  •  FATHER  •  OF  •  TRUTH 


Jam  Noli  Tardare 

Undeterminted  starry  spaces, 

Fill  with  joy  your  paths  unknown! 

But  to  watch  the  inward  graces 
Needs  the  inward  sight  alone; 

Meanest  places  hold  the  spell 

Of  unfathomed  miracle. 

Hence  when  any  hour  invites  you, 
Whether  seemly  eve's  repose, 

Or,  if  better  this  delights  you, 

Night  august  or  hush'd  moon-close; 

Best  when  best  your  charm  is  found — 

Pass  into  your  garden  ground. 

There  a  sadden  sense  supernal 
On  the  mind  prepared  shall  fall, 

As  of  haunted  thought  eternal 
And  great  strangeness  vesting  all; 

Grass  and  glebe  and  grave  expound 

Thin  veil'd  secrets  latent  round. 

Not  in  bowers  of  roses  solely 
Shall  the  wondrous  tale  be  told, 

[207] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


But  plantations  meek  and  lowly, 

Beds  of  burning  marigold; 
Yet  betwixt  the  lilies  straight 
Swings  the  visionary  gate. 

Not  devoid  of  dream  if  blended 
Are  the  windflowers  and  the  docks, 

For  myself  I  love  a  splendid 
Place  of  purple  hollyhocks, 

And  my  fancy  knows  the  powers 

Which  lie  rich  in  the  sunflowers. 

I  could  set  you  in  my  closes, 
With  the  seeing  sense  endow'd, 

Where  the  weed  is  as  the  rose  is, 
And  the  bird's  lilt,  low  or  loud, 

Outward  voices,  clear  and  strong, 

Worlds  of  rapture,  worlds  of  song. 

But  for  you  a  place  of  wonder 

Your  own  garden  ground  must  be; 

'Twixt  the  trees  that  you  stand  under, 
Seeing  what  is  yours  to  see, 

In  my  garden  seen  aright 

All  is  scarlet  and  white  light. 

•  •  •  •  • 

[208] 


MAN  •  PROPOSES  •  GOD  •  DISPOSES 

White  the  Word  of  Words  reposes 

Far  beyond  the  lip's  control, 
Till  the  fitting  time  discloses, 

In  the  garden  of  the  soul, 
Let  us  dreamers  day  by  day 
In  the  outward  gardens  pray. 

ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE. 
A  Book  of  Mystery  and  Vision. 


I  know, 

When  the  shadows  lie  so  rich,  so  slant,  so  long 
Over    the    close-cropp'd    lawn    which    else    is 

white  with  dew, 

Where  the  misty  vistas  shine,  and  the  wind- 
ing path  go  through 
To  thickets  beyond  the  garden  ground  and  a 

secret  bird  in  song; 

The    darkling    orbs    of    the    sunflowers,    splen- 
didly tall, 
Droop  in  the  moon-mist  nimbus,  dim  with 

a  hollowing  tinge, 

While  from   their  palm-like  leaves  the  thick 
dews  trickle  and  fall, 

[209] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


And  the  musk-rich  scents  of  the  garden  rise 
To  the  overshadowing  fringe 
Of  their  gorgeous  golden  eyes. 

I  know, 

When  at  last  the  uttermost  stillness  steeps 
Rose  and  lily,  and  laurel  and  lilac  hedge; 
The  leaf  does  not  stir  on  the  willow,  nor  the 

leaf  where  the  ash-tree  weeps, 
The  topmost  twig  of  the  yew  and  the  cypress 

sleeps 

Like  the  box  of  the  garden  edge; 
When  great,  divine,  serene, 
Flowing  from  vales  beyond,  and  yet  beyond 

from  the  hills, 

The  sense  magnetic  of  expectation  fills 
The  palaces  sacramental  and  high-roof'd  halls 
In  the  haunted  place  of  incense,  the  wondrous 

place 

Earth  and  its  crown  between, 
With  an  unvoiced  solemn  promise  of  bound- 

less grace, 
As  over  the  East's  red  ramparts,  gateways  and 

cloudy  walls, 

And  over  a  thousand  changeful  turrets  and 
towers, 

[210] 


THY  •  DAYS  •  PASS 


The  morning  glory  of  heaven  blooms  over  and 

calls 

The  morning  glories  of  earth  in  a  thousand 
bowers. 

ARTHUR  EDWARD  WAITE. 
A  Book  of  Mystery  and  Vision. 


Vly  Garden 

A  Garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot! 

Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 

Ferned  grot — 

The  veriest  school 

Of  peace;  and  yet  the  fool 

Contends  that  God  is  not — 

Not  God !  in  gardens !  when  the  eve  is  cool ! 

Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign; 

'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 

T.  E.  BROWN. 


[211] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


A  garden  shut  up  is  my  sister,  my  bride, 

A  spring  shut  up, 

A  fountain  sealed. 
Thy  shoots  are  an  orchard  of  pomegranates, 

With  precious  fruits; 
Henna  with  spikenard  plants, 

Spikenard  and  saffron, 

Calamus  and  cinnamon,  with  all  trees  of  frank- 
incense, 

Myrrh  and  aloes,  with  all  the  chief  spices. 
Thou  art  a  fountain  of  gardens, 

A  well  of  living  waters, 

And  flowing  streams  from  Lebanon. 

Awake,  O  north  wind;  and  come,  thou  south; 

Blow  upon  my  garden, 

That  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out. 
Let  my  beloved  come  into  his  garden, 

And  eat  his  precious  fruits. 

I  am  come  into  my  garden,  my  sister,  my  bride  ; 
I  have  gathered  my  myrrh  with  my  spice; 
I  have  eaten  my  honeycomb  with  my  honey; 
I  have  drunk  my  wine  with  my  milk. 

•  •  •  •  • 

[212] 


OUR  •  TIMES  •  AT  •  HAND 


My  beloved  is  gone  down  to  his  garden, 

To  the  bed  of  spices, 
To  feed  in  the  gardens, 

And  to  gather  lilies. 

I  went  down  into  the  garden  of  nuts, 
To  see  the  green  plants  of  the  valley, 

To  see  whether  the  vine  budded, 

And  the  pomegranates  were  in  flower. 

Or  ever  I  was  aware,  my  soul  set  me 

Among  the  chariots  of  my  princely  people. 
Solomon's  Song  of  Songs. 


The  Bower 

From  the  place  I  stood  in,  floated 
Back  the  covert  din  and  close, 
And  the  open  ground  was  coated 
Carpet-smooth  with  grass  and  moss, 
And    the    blue-bells'    purple    presence    signed 
worthily  across. 

Here  a  linden-tree  stood,  bright'ning 
All  adown  its  silver  rind; 

[213] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


For  as  some  trees  draw  the  lightning, 
So  this  tree,  unto  my  mind, 
Drew  to  earth  the  blessed  sunshine  from  the  sky 
where  it  was  shrined. 

Tall  the  linden-tree  and  near  it, 
An  old  hawthorn  also  grew; 
And  wood-ivy  like  a  spirit 
Hovered  dimly  round  the  two, 
Shaping  thence  that  bower  of  beauty  which  I 
sing  of  thus  to  you. 

'Twas  a  bower  for  garden  fitter 
Than  for  any  woodland  wide; 
Though  a  fresh  and  dewy  glitter 
Struck  it  through  from  side  to  side, 
Shaped  and  shaven  was  the  freshness,  as  by  gar- 
den-cunning plied. 

Oh,  a  lady  might  have  come  there, 
Hooded  fairly  like  her  hawk, 
With  a  book  or  lute  in  summer, 
And  a  hope  of  sweeter  talk,  — 
Listening  less  to  her  own  music  than  for  foot- 
steps on  the  walk! 

[214] 


tT  EITHER  •  LEARN  •  OR  •  GO  tT 

But  that  bower  appeared  a  marvel 
In  the  wildness  of  the  place; 
With  such  seeming  art  and  travail, 
Dimly  fixed  and  filled  was 
Leaf  to  leaf,  the  dark  green  ivy,  to  the  summit 
from  the  base. 


And  the  ivy  veined  and  glossy 
Was  enwrought  with  eglantine; 
And  like  wild  hop  fibred  closely, 
And  the  large-leaved  columbine, 
Arch   of   door   and    window-mullion,   did    right 
sylvanly  entwine. 

Rose-tree  either  side  the  door  were 
Growing  lithe  and  growing  tall, 
Each  one  set  a  summer  warder 
For  the  keeping  of  the  hall, — 
With  a  red  rose  and  a  white  rose,  leaning,  nod- 
ding at  the  wall. 

As  I  entered,  mosses  hushing 
Stole  all  noises  from  my  foot; 
And  a  green  elastic  cushion, 

[215] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Clasped  within  the  linden's  root, 
Took  me  in  a  chair  of  silence  very  rare  and  ab- 
solute. 


All  the  floor  was  paved  with  glory, 
Greenily,  silently  inlaid 
(Through  quick  motions  made  before  me) 
With  fair  counterparts  in  shade 
Of    the   fair   serrated    ivy-leaves   which   slanted 
overhead. 


"  Is  such  pavement  in  a  palace?  " 
So  I  questioned  in  my  thought: 
The  sun,  shining  through  the  chalice 
Of  the  red  rose  hung  without, 
Threw  within  a  red  libation,  like  an  answer  to 
my  doubt. 

At  the  same  time,  on  the  linen 
Of  my  childish  lap  there  fell 
Two  white  May-leaves,  downward  winning 
Through  the  ceiling's  miracle, 
From  a  blossom,  like  an  angel,  but  of  sight  yet 
blessing  well. 

[216] 


tT  NEVER  -TO-BE  •  RECALLED  tT 

Down  to  floor  and  up  to  ceiling 
Quick  I  turned  my  childish  face, 
With  an  innocent  appealing 
For  the  secret  of  the  place, 

To  the  trees  which  surely  knew  it  in  partaking 
of  the  grace. 


Where's  no  foot  of  human  creature 
How  could  reach  a  human  hand? 
And  if  this  be  work  of  Nature, 
Why  has  Nature,  turned  so  bland, 
Breaking  off   from   other  wild   work?     It  was 
hard  to  understand. 

Was  she  weary  of  rough-doing, 
Of  the  bramble  and  the  thorn? 
Did  she  pause  in  tender  rueing 
Her  of  all  her  sylvan  scorn? 
Or  in  mock  of  Art's  deceiving  was  the  sudden 
mildness  worn? 


Or  could  this  same  bower  (I  fancied) 
Be  the  work  of  Dryad  strong, 
Who,  surviving  all  that  chanced 

[217] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


In  the  world's  pagan  wrong, 
Lay  hid,   feeding  in  the  woodland  on   the  last 
true  poet's  song? 

Or  was  this  the  house  of  fairies, 
Left,  because  of  the  rough  ways, 
Unassailed  by  Ave  Marys 
Which  the  passing  pilgrim  prays, 
And    beyond    St.    Catherine's    chiming    on    the 
blessed  Sabbath  days? 

Oh,  the  golden-hearted  daisies 
Witnessed  there,  before  my  youth, 
To  the  truth  of  things,  with  praises 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  truth; 
And  I  awoke  to  Nature's  real,  laughing  joyfully 
for  both. 


And  I  said  within  me,  laughing, 
I  have  found  a  bower  to-day, 
A  green  lusus,   fashioned  half  in 
Chance  and  half  in  Nature's  play, 
And  a  little  bird  sings  nigh  it,  I  will  never  more 
mis-say. 

[218] 


AS  •  THE  •  SHADE  •  IS  •  SO  •  IS  •  LIFE 

Henceforth,  I  will  be  the  fairy, 
Of  this  bower  not  built  by  one ; 
I  will  go  then,  sad  or  merry, 
With  each  morning's  benison, 
And  the  bird  shall  be  my  harper  in  the  dream- 
hall  I  have  won. 


By  this  couch  I  weakly  lie  on, 
While  I  count  my  memories, — 
Through  the  fingers  which,  still  sighing, 
I  press  closely  on  mine  eyes, — 
Clear  as  once  beneath  the  sunshine,  I  beheld  the 
bower  arise. 


Springs  the  linden-tree  as  greenly, 
Stroked  with  light  adown  its  rind; 
And  the  ivy-leaves  serenely 
Each  in  either  intertwined; 
And  the  rose  trees  at  the  doorway,  they  have 
neither  grown  nor  pined. 

From  those  overblown  faint  roses 
Not  a  leaf  appeareth  shed, 
And  that  little  bud  discloses 

[219] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Not  a  thorn's-breadth  more  of  red, 
For  the  winters  and   the  summers  which  have 
passed  me  overhead. 

And  that  music  overfloweth, 
Sudden  sweet,  the  sylvan  eaves: 
Thrush  or  nightingale — who  knoweth? 
Fay  or  faunus — who  believes? 
But  my  heart  still  trembles  in  me  to  the  trem- 
bling of  the  leaves. 

Is  the  bower  lost  then?  who  sayeth 
That  the  bower  indeed  is  lost? 
Hark!  my  spirit  in  it  prayeth 
Through  the  sunshine  and  the  frost, — 
And  the  prayer  preserves  it  greenly,  to  the  last 
and  uttermost. 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 

The  Lost  Bower. 


[220] 


TIME  •  BRINGS  •  TRUTH  •  TO  •  LIGHT 


The  Trees  of  the  Garden 

Ye  who  have  passed  Death's  haggard  hills;  and 

ye 
Whom  trees  that  knew  your  sires  shall  cease 

to  know 

And  still  stand  silent: — is  it  all  a  show — 
A  wisp  that  laughs  upon  the  wall  ? — decree 
Of  some  inexorable  supremacy 

Which  ever,  as  man  strains  his  blind  surmise 
From  depth  to  ominous  depth,  looks  past  his 

eyes, 
Sphinx- faced  with  unabashed  augury? 

Nay,  rather  question  the  Earth's  self.     Invoke 
The  storm-felled   forest  trees  moss-grown  to- 
day 
Whose  roots  are  hillocks  where  the  children 

play; 

Or  ask  the  silver  sapling  'neath  what  yoke 
Those     stars,     his     spray-crown's     clustering 

gems,  shall  wage 
Their   journey  still   when   his  boughs   shrink 

with  age.  „    ~    „ 

D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

(The  House  of  Life.) 
[221] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 


A  Forsaken  Garden 

In   a   coign   of   the   cliff   between   lowland   and 

highland, 
At    the    sea-down's   edge   between    windward 

and  lee, 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inward  island, 

The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 
Where   the    weeds   that   grew    green    from   the 

graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  prest  at  the  foot  that  falls  not  ; 
As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are 

dry; 

From   the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  night- 
ingale calls  not, 
Could   she  call,   there  were  never  a  rose  to 

reply. 

Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither, 
Rings  but   the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song. 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

[222] 


PAX  •  OPTIMA  •  RERUM 


The  sun  burns  scar  and  the  rain  dishevels 

One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 
Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 
Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weep- 
ing, 

Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 
Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 

Years  ago. 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the 

sea. 

Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 
In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not   a   breath   shall    there  sweeten   the  seasons 

hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now 

or  weep, 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and 

laughter 
We  shall  sleep. 

A.  C.  SWINBURNE. 
(Poems  and  Ballads.) 


[223] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Paradise 

Once  in  a  dream  I  saw  the  flowers 

That  bud  and  bloom  in  Paradise; 

More  fair  they  are  than  waking  eyes 
Have  seen  in  all  this  world  of  ours, 
And  faint  the  perfume  bearing  rose, 

And  faint  the  lily  on  its  stem, 
And  faint  the  perfect  violet, 

Compared  with  them. 

I  heard  the  songs  of  Paradise; 

Each  bird  sat  singing  in  its  place; 

A  tender  song  so  full  of  grace 
It  soared  like  incense  to  the  skies. 
Each  bird  sat  singing  to  its  mate 

Soft  cooing  notes  among  the  trees: 
The  nightingale  herself  were  cold 

To  such  as  these. 

I  saw  the  fourfold  River  flow, 

And  deep  it  was,  with  golden  sand; 
It  flowed  between  a  mossy  land 

With  murmured  music  grave  and  low. 

[224] 


MAKE  •  HASTE  •  SLOWLY 


It  hath  refreshment  for  all  thirst, 

For  fainting  spirit  strength  and  rest; 

Earth  holds  not  such  a  draught  as  this 
From  east  to  west. 

The  Tree  of  Life  stood  budding  there, 

Abundant  with  its  twelvefold  fruits; 

Eternal  sap  sustains  its  roots, 
Its  shadowing  branches  fill  the  air. 
Its  leavings  are  healing  for  the  world, 

Its  fruit  the  hungry  world  can  feed, 
Sweeter  than  honey  to  the  taste 

And  balm  indeed. 

I  saw  the  Gate  called  Beautiful; 

And  looked,  but  scarce  could  look  within; 

I  saw  the  golden  streets  begin, 
And  outskirts  of  the  glassy  pool. 
Oh  harps,  oh  crowns  of  plenteous  stars, 

Oh  green  palm  branches,  many-leaved  — 
Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard, 

Nor  heart  conceived. 

I  hope  to  see  these  things  again, 
But  not  as  once  in  dreams  by  night; 

[225] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


To  see  them  with  my  very  sight, 
And  touch  and  handle  and  attain: 
To  have  all  heaven  beneath  my  feet 

For  narrow  way  that  once  they  trod; 
To  have  my  part  with  all  the  saints, 

And  with  my  God. 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI. 


Garden  Fairies 

Keen  was  the  air,  the  sky  was  very  light, 

Soft  with  shed  snow  my  garden  was,  and  white, 

And  walking  there,  I  heard  upon  the  night 

Sudden  sound  of  little  voices, 

Just  the  prettiest  of  noises. 

It  was  the  strangest,  subtlest,  sweetest  sound: 
It  seem'd  above  me,  seem'd  upon  the  ground. 
Then  swiftly  seem'd  to  eddy  round  and  round, 

Till  I  said :  "  To-night  the  air  is 

Surely  full  of  garden  fairies." 

And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  I  grew  aware 
That  little,  shining  presences  were  there, — 

[226] 


U  I  •  SET  •  TO  •  RISE  •  AGAIN  U 

White  shapes  and  red  shapes  danced  upon  the  air ; 
Then  a  peal  of  silver  laughter, 
And  such  singing  followed  after. 

As  none  of  you,  I  think,  has  ever  heard. 
More  soft  it  was  than  call  of  any  bird. 
Note  after  note,  exquisitely  deferr'd, 

Soft  as  dew  drops  when  they  settle 

In  a  fair  flower's  open  petal. 

"What  are  these  fairies?"  to  myself  I  said; 
For  answer,  then,  as  from  a  garden's  bed, 
On  the  cold  air  a  sudden  scent  was  shed, 
Scent  of  lilies,  scent  of  roses, 
Scent  of  summer's  sweetest  posies. 

And  said  a  small,  sweet  voice  within  my  ear: 
"  We  flowers,   that  sleep  through  winter,   once 

a  year 

Are  by  our  flower  queen  sent  to  visit  here, 
That  this  fact  may  duly  flout  us, — 
Gardens  can  look  fair  without  us. 

"  A  very  little  time  we  have  to  play, 
Then  must  we  go,  oh,  very  far  away, 

[227] 


U  IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS  U 

And  sleep  again  for  many  a  long,  long  day, 
Till  the  glad  birds  sing  above  us, 
And  the  warm  sun  comes  to  love  us. 

"  Hark,  what  the  roses  sing  now,  as  we  go  " ; 
Then  very  sweet  and  soft,  and  very  low, — 
A  dream  of  sound  across  the  garden  snow, — 

Come  the  chime  of  roses  singing 

To  the  lily-bells'  faint  ringing. 


ROSE  s  SONG 

"  Softly  sinking  through  the  snow,    • 
To  our  winter  rest  we  go, 
Underneath  the  snow  to  house 
Till  the  birds  be  in  the  boughs, 
And  the  boughs  with  leaves  be  fair, 
And  the  sunshine  everywhere. 
Softly  through  the  snow  we  settle, 
Little  snow  drops  press  each  petal. 
Oh,  the  snow  is  kind  and  white, — 
Soft  it  is,  and  very  light; 
Soon  we  shall  be  where  no  light  is, 
But  where  sleep  is,  and  where  night  is,- 

[228] 


I  •  MOVE  •  AND  •  WARN 


Sleep  of  every  kind  unshaken, 
Till  our  summer  bids  us  waken." 


Then    toward    some    far-off    goal    that   singing 

drew; 

Then  altogether  cried  ;  more  steely  blue 
The  blue  star  shone;  but  in  my  spirit  grew 
Hope  of  Summer,  love  of  Roses, 
Certainty  that  Sorrow  closes. 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 


To  a  Garden 

Oh,  happy  Eden!  where  I  roam'd  of  yore 
In  that  sweet  innocence  I  long  for  now, — 
No  childish  innocence  of  fruited  bough, 

For  I  had  bit  my  apple  to  the  core, 

But  when  the  golden  fruit  seem'd  doubly  sweet, 
(Unlike  the  tempter  of  a  bygone  day), 
A  serpent  came,  and  bade  me  fling  away 

What  once  he  bade  those  first  poor  lovers  eat. 

[229] 


IN  •  PRAISE  •  OF  •  GARDENS 


Oh,  had  I  never  bent  that  magic  bough, 
And  tasted  of  the  sweetness  that  it  bore, 
My  heart  had  been  as  careless  as  before, 

And  all  these  bitter  tears  unfailing  now! 

I  curse  the  cruel  hand  that  pointed  where 
My  golden  apple  show'd  a  bitter  flaw, 
And  his  malignant  eye,  who  smiled  and  saw 

My  best  illusions  melting  into  air! 

But  garden  —  garden  where  I  used  to  rove, 
I  bless  thy  orange  groves  and  sunny  sky, 
I  bless  thy  feath'ry  palm  —  trees  tow'ring  high, 

That  overshadow'd  what  seem'd  then  my  love! 

VIOLET  FANE. 


LET  •  OTHERS  •  TELL  •  OF  •  STORMS  •  AND  • 

•  SHOWERS  • 
I'LL  •  ONLY  -  COUNT  •  YOUR     SUNNY     HOURS 


[230] 


INDEX 

Across  the  Convent  garden  walls   (Mathilde  Blind), 

159- 

Across   my    Garden!    and    the   thicket   stirs    (Tenny- 
son), 119. 

A  Garden  bower'd  close   (Tennyson),  171. 
A  Garden  shut  up  is  my  sister,  my  bride   (The  Bible 

— Song  of  Songs),  213. 
A  Garden  Song  (Austin  Dobson),  177. 
Akerman    (William),   Dost  thou  remember  how  one 

morn  of  Spring,  100. 
Akerman    (William),    The    Garden    walks    are   wet 

with  dew,  137. 

An  Autumn  Garden  (Bliss  Carman),  143. 
And  the  Lord   God  Planted  a  Garden   (The  Bible), 

183. 

An  Eastern  City's  Garden    (Tennyson),  158. 
An  October  Garden   (P.  B.  Marston),  175. 
Anonymous,  If  they  to  whom  God  gives  fair  gardens 

knew,  36. 
Anonymous,  The  bee  through  flowery  gardens  goes, 

46. 

Anonymous,  Void  Notre  Heure,  65. 
Autumn  Tints   (Mathilde  Blind),  137. 

Ballad  of  White  Maidens  (A.  E.  Waite),  200. 
Bee,  The,  Through  flowery  gardens  goes,  46. 

[231] 


INDEX 


Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  many  flowers  (Brown- 
ing— Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese),   81. 
Benson  (A.  C.),  In  a  College  Garden,  162. 
Bible,  And  the  Lord  Planted  a  Garden,  183. 
Blind    (Mathilde),  A   Garden  in  Spring,  58. 

Autumn   Tints,  137. 

Across  the  Convent  Garden  Walls,  159. 

He  passed  the  garden  where,  snow-white  and 

red,  1 60. 

I  planted  a  rose-tree  in  my  garden,  160. 

In  a  Kentish  Rose  Garden,  176. 


Bosworth  (W.),  Love  in  the  Garden,  76. 

Bower,  The  Lost  (E.  B.  Browning),  213. 

Bridges   (Robert),  The  Garden  in  September,  134. 

The  pinks  along  my  garden  walks,  136. 

Brown   (T.  E.),  My  Garden,  211. 

Browning    (E.   B.),   Beloved,   thou   hast   brought   me 

many  flowers  (Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese),  81. 
Hector  in  the  Garden,  120. 

The  Lost  Bower,  213. 

Browning    (R.)»   The  Flower's  Name   (Garden  Fan- 
cies), 82. 
But  I  know  where  a  Garden  Grows  (Tennyson),  159. 

Campion   (Thomas),  Cherry  Ripe,  75. 
Carman  (Bliss),  An  Autumn  Garden,  143. 
Cavendish,  My  Garden  sweet,  enclosed  with  walles 

strong,  36. 
Chaucer  (Geoffrey),  The  Franklin's  Tale,  24. 

The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  25. 

The  Parlement  of  Foules,  29. 

[232] 


INDEX 


Chaucer  (Geoffrey),  The  Merchant's  Tale,  67. 

When  almost  ended  was  the  month  of  May, 

167. 

Cherry  Ripe  (Campion),  75. 
Chorl  and  the  Birde,  The  (John  Lydgate),  107. 
Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud!  (Tennyson),  85. 
Contemplation  upon  Flowers   (Henry  King),  186. 
Cook    (Eliza),   Early   Influence   of    Gardens   remains 

Always,  122. 

Corymbus  for  Autumn,  A   (Francis  Thompson),  59. 
Cowley   (A.),  Underneath  this  myrtle  shade,  43. 

The  Wish,  44. 

Spring  in  a  Garden,  78. 

A  Wish,  109. 

Cowper   (William),  The  Garden,  113. 
Custance    (Olive),   The  Parting  Hour,  100. 

Dobson  (Austin),  A  Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven,  56. 

A  Garden  Song,  177. 

Dost  thou   remember  how   one   morn  of   Spring    (W. 

Akerman),  100. 
Dowson  (Ernest),  The  Garden  of  Shadow,  97. 

Yvonne  of  Brittany,  98. 

Early  Influence  of  Gardens  remains  Always    (Eliza 

Cook),  122. 
Emerson  (R.  W.),  My  Garden,  197. 

Faerie  Queene,  The  (Book  II,  Canto  xii),  (E.  Spen- 
ser), 31. 
Fane  (Violet),  Love  in  a  Garden,  94. 

[233] 


INDEX 


Fane   (Violet),  In  Green  Old  Gardens,  171. 

To  a  Garden,  229. 

Farewell,  A  (W.  Wordsworth),  117. 
FitzGerald   (Edward),  In  a  Persian  Garden,  53. 
Flos  Florum    (George  Wither),  36. 

Flower  Garden,  A    (Wordsworth),  167. 

Flower,  The   (George  Herbert),   184. 

Flower's   Name,   The    (Browning — Garden   Fancies'), 

82. 

Franklin's  Tale,  The  (Chaucer),  24. 
From  House  to  Home  (C.  G.  Rossetti),  133. 
Fugitive  Glory,  The   (Neihardt),  61. 

Garden  of  Flowers,  A  (James  Thomson),  112. 
Garden,  The  (Marvell),  40. 

(William  Cowper),  113. 

(Alexander  Pope),  115. 

Garden  in  September,  The  (R.  Bridges),  134. 
Garden,  The,  walks  are  wet  with  dew    (Akerman), 

137- 

Garden  Faeries  (P.  B.  Marston),  226. 
Garden  of  Adonis,  The  (Spenser),  69. 
Garden  Lyric  (F.  Locker),  92. 
Garden  of  Alcinoiis,  The   (Homer),  23. 
Garden  of  Eden   (John  Milton),  187. 
Garden  of  Prosperina,  The  (Spenser),  67. 
Garden  of  Shadow  (Ernest  Dowson),  97. 
Garden  in  Spring  (Mathilde  Blind),  58. 
Garden  Thoughts    (James  Montgomery),   191. 
Gascoigne  (George),  Lines  written  on  a  Garden  Seat, 

it* 

[234] 


INDEX 


Gilbert  (W.  S.),  Only  Roses,  161. 

Grecian  Garden,  A  (Theocritus — Lang),  66. 

Groves  of  Blarney,  The  (Milliken),  49. 

Happy  Swain,  The  (Philips),  46. 

Hark!  Hark!  the  lark  at  Heaven's  gate  sings,  34. 

Hector  in  the  Garden  (E.  B.  Browning),  120. 

He   passed   the   garden   where,   snow-white    and    red 

(Mathilde  Blind),  160. 
Herbert    (George),    The  Flower,  184. 
Homer,  The  Garden  of  Alcinoiis  (The  Odyssey,  Book 

VII),  23. 
Hope   (Laurence),  The  Orange  Garden,  102. 

If  they  to  whom  God  gives  fair  gardens  knew,  36. 
I  have  a  Garden  of  my  own  (Thomas  Moore),  148. 
I  know,  where  the  shadows  lie  so  rich  (A.  E.  Waite), 

209. 

llle  Terrarum  (R.  L.  Stevenson),  124. 
In  a  Bower  (A.  O'Shaughnessy),  90. 
In  a  College  Garden  (A.  C.  Benson),  162. 
In  Eastern  Lands  they  talk  in  flowers  (Percival),  91. 
In  a  Kentish  Rose  Garden  (Mathilde  Blind),  176. 
In  a  Persian  Garden   (FitzGerald),  53. 
In  Green  Old  Gardens  (Violet  Fane),  171. 
In  Springtime  (R.  Kipling),  140. 
I  planted  a  rose-tree  in  my  garden  (Mathilde  Blind), 

1 60. 

Jam  Noli  Tardare  (A.  E.  Waite),  207. 

January  and  May  (Pope),  81. 

Jonson  (Ben),  The  Shepherd's  Holyday,  35. 

[235] 


INDEX 


King  (Henry),  A  Contemplation  upon  Flowers,  186. 
Kipling   (Rudyard),  In  Springtime,  140. 

Lang  (Andrew),  A  Song  of  Phaacia,  54. 

One  Flower,  95. 

Lines  written  on  a  Garden  Seat  (G.  Gascoigne),  183. 
Little,   The,   Window    looks  upon   the   East    (Stuart- 

Mentieth),  138. 

Locker  (Frederick),  A  Garden  Lyric,  92. 
Love  in  a  Garden  (Violet  Fane),  94. 
Love  in  the  Garden  (Bosworth),  76. 
Lydgate  (John),  The  Chorl  and  the  Birde,  107. 

Marston  (Philip  Bourke),  An  October  Garden,  175. 

Garden  Faeries,  226. 

Marvell   (Andrew),  The  Nymph  Complaining  for  the 
Death  of  Her  Fawn,  39. 

The  Garden,  40. 

The  Mower  against  Gardens,  no. 

Merchant's  Tale,  The  (Chaucer),  67. 

Meynell  (Alice),  My  Heart  Shall  be  thy  Garden,  96. 
Midges  Dance  Aboon  the  Burn,  The  (Tannahill),  48. 
Milliken  (R.  A.),  The  Groves  of  Blarney,  49. 
Milton  (John),  The  Garden  of  Eden,  187. 
Montgomery  (James),  Garden  Thoughts,  191. 
Moore  (Thomas),  I  have  a  Garden  of  ray  own,  148. 
Morris  (William),  The  Nymph's  Song  to  Hylas,  89. 
Moss-Rose,  The  (Henry  Newbolt),  163. 
Mower  against  Gardens,  The  (A.  Marvell),  no. 
My  Garden  (Emerson),   197. 
My  Garden  (T.  E.  Brown),  211. 

[236] 


INDEX 


My    Garden    Sweet,    enclosed    with    walles    strong 

(Chaucer),  36. 
My  Heart  Shall  be  thy  Garden  (Alice  Meynell),  96. 

Neihardt  (J.  G.),  The  Fugitive  Glory,  61. 

Newbolt  (Henry),  The  Moss-Rose,  163. 

Night  and  Day  (R.  L.  Stevenson),  131. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite  (Tennyson), 

170. 

November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear  (Scott),  119. 
Nymph  Complaining  for  the  Death  of  Her  Fawn  (A. 

Marvell),  39. 
Nymph's  Song  to  Hylas  (W.  Morris),  89. 

Omar  Khayyam,  In  a  Persian  Garden   (FitzGerald), 

S3- 

One  Flower   (Andrew  Lang),  95. 
Only  Roses  (W.  S.  Gilbert),  161. 
Orange  Garden,  The  (Laurence  Hope),  102. 
O'Shaughnessy  (A.),  In  a  Bower,  90. 

Paradise  (C.  G.  Rossetti),  224. 

Parlement  of  Foules   (Chaucer),  29. 

Parting  Hour,  The  (Olive  Custance),  100. 

Percival,  In  Eastern  Lands  they  talk  in  flowers,  91. 

Philips  (A.),  The  Happy  Swain,  46. 

Pinks,  The,  along  my  garden  walks  (R.  Bridges),  136. 

Pope  (A.),  January  and  May,  81. 

The  Garden,  115. 

The  Tasteless  Garden,  147. 

[237] 


jy  INDEX 


Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  The  (Chaucer),  25. 
Rossetti   (D.  G.),  The  Trees  of  the  Garden,  221. 
Rossetti   (C.  G.),  From  House  to  Home,  133. 

Shut  Out,  171. 

Paradise,  224. 

Ruines  of  Time,  The  (Spenser),  30. 

Scott    (Sir.  W.),   November's  sky  is  chill   and  drear, 

(Marmion),  119. 

Sensitive  Plant,  The  (P.  B.  Shelley),  153. 
Shakespeare   (W.),  Where  the  Bee  Sucks,  33. 

Hark,  Hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

34- 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree,  34. 


Shelley  (P.  B.),  The  Sensitive  Plant,  153. 

Shepherd's  Holy  day,  The,  35. 

Shut  Out  (C.  G.  Rossetti),  173. 

Solomon   (King),  A  garden  shut  up  is  my  sister,  my 

bride,  213. 

Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven  (A.  Dobson),  56. 
Song  of  Phaacia  (Andrew  Lang),  54. 
So  white  with  frost  my  garden  lies   (R.  M.  Watson), 

142. 
Spenser  (Edmund),  The  Ruines  of  Time,  30. 

The  Faerie  Queene  (Book  II,  Canto  xii),  31. 

The  Garden  of  Proserpina    (Faerie  Queene), 

67. 

The  Garden  of  Adonis  (Faerie  Queene),  69. 

To  the  gay  gardins  his  unstaid  desire   (Muio- 


potmos),  107. 
Spring  in  a  Garden  (Cowley),  78. 

[238] 


INDEX 


Stood  the  House   where  I  was  born    (A.  E.  Waite), 

139- 
Stevenson  (R.  L.),  Hie  Terrarum,  124. 

To  a  Garden,  128. 

The  Sun's  Travels,  129. 

Night  and  Day,  131. 

Stuart-Menteith    (Dora),    The    little    window    looks 

upon  the  East,  138. 

Sun's  Travels,  The  (R.  L.  Stevenson),  129. 
Swinburne   (A.  C.),  The  Forsaken  Garden,  222. 

Tannahill   (R.),  The  Midges  Dance  Aboon  the  Burn, 

48. 

Tasteless  Garden,  The  (A.  Pope),  147. 
Tennyson  (A.),  Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud!  85. 

Across  my  Garden!  and  the  thicket  stirs,  119. 

An  Eastern  City's  Garden,  158. 

But  I  Know  where  a  Garden  Grows,  159. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite,  170. 

A  Garden  bower'd  close,  171. 

The  Forsaken  Garden  (A.  C.  Swinburne),  222. 
Theocritus,  A  Grecian  Garden  (Lang),  66. 
The  Spirit  of  all  Gardens  (Francis  Thompson),  178. 
The  Trees  of  the  Garden  (D.  G.  Rossetti),  221. 
Thomson   (James),  A  Garden  of  Flowers,  112. 
Thompson   (Francis),  A  Corymbus  for  Autumn,  59. 

The  Spirit  of  all  Gardens,  178. 

To  a  Garden  (R.  L.  Stevenson),  128. 
To  a  Garden  (Violet  Fane),  229. 

To   the   gay   gardins   his   unstaid   desire    (Spenser. — 
Muiopotmos),  107. 

[239] 


INDEX 


Underneath  this  Myrtle  Shade   (Cowley),  93. 
Under  the  Greenwood  Tree   (Shakespeare),  34. 

Void  Notre  Heure  (Anon.),  65. 

Vestured  and  veiled  with  twilight  (R.  M.  Watson), 
141. 

Waite  (Arthur  E.),  Stood  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
139. 

A  Ballad  of  White  Maidens,  200. 

Jam  Noli  Tardare,  207. 

I  Know  where  the  Shadows  lie  so  rich,  209. 

Watson    (Rosamund   M.),   Vestured   and   veiled   with 

twilight,  141. 

So  white  with  frost  my  garden  lies,  142. 

When  Almost  Ended  was  the  month  of  May  (Chau- 
cer), 167. 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloom'd  (Whit- 
man), 192, 

Where  the  Bee  Sucks    (Shakespeare),  33. 

Whitman  (Walt.),  When  lilacs  last  in  the  doer-yard 
bloom'd,  192. 

Wish,  A  (A.  Cowley),  109. 

Wish,  The  (Cowley),  44. 

With  deep  devotion,  Nature,  did  I  feel  (Words- 
worth, The  Prelude),  51. 

Wither  (George),  Flos  Florum,  36. 

Wordsworth  (W.),  With  deep  devotion,  Nature,  did 
I  feel  (The  Prelude),  51. 

A  Fareivell,  117. 

A  Floiver  Garden,  167. 

Yvonne  of  Brittany  (Ernest  Dawson),  98. 

[240] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000752314     5 


